This is a modest fire in our modest fireplace.
I have no idea
if Norman Rockwell ever painted a picture of a happy family or couple huddled
around a fireplace, perhaps holding mugs of hot coco while snowfall can be seen
out the window in the background, but it seems like he probably has.
Norm was always
drawing sentimental Americana shit like that — shit that doesn’t even exist
anymore in today’s “show everyone how cool you are by hating everything”
culture.
But if he
would’ve drawn and painted a fireplace scene like the one described above, it
would not have been accurate. A fireplace does not bring people together. It
drives them apart.
I know this,
because at my house we have a fireplace. And since the weather has turned, the
fireplace has not once been gathered around for a warm beverage or moment of
fuzzy fellowship. Instead, there has been a never-ending tournament amongst
myself, my roommate Jeff and my friend/cousin Johnsy to determine who can build
the biggest, barely containable fire.
As of this
writing, I am way out in front of the competition. In fact, I have been
nominated by the woodstove hall of fame for my impressive blazes — blazes that,
had they not been contained by the walls of our small furnace, would have spread
from our house to the neighbors’, eventually taking down the whole village of
Sterling. From there, who knows the damage the mighty flames would’ve caused.
The point is, it was beautiful, and the best fire ever created in the
fireplace.
I admit my
opponents have made some impressive fires. There have been times when the light
is off in the room where the fireplace is located, and you would swear the
light’s still on, due to the glow of the firelight. My competitors have
achieved this (though not as frequently as me). I was shocked the first time
either one accomplished this feat.
And I was
actually proud of them! It’s like they’ve finally grown up. But I still have to
take control of the fireplace often. No matter how proud you get of your children,
sometimes you have to remind them who’s running the show. (So I’m told. I have
no children. Actually, no one ever told me this. But it’s a parenting technique
I’ll one day employ nonetheless).
So next time you
see a couple on TV huddled in a blanket, admiring a roaring fire, smiling at
one another and sipping hot chocolate, remember what one of them is thinking.
“I can do better,
bitch.”
