The "old Farmer's" bonfire, a January tradition

The  waning moon hung in this morning's bitter cold, nearly cloudless sky.  

 And something, not sure what made me think of the "old farmer", his memory is a blessing to us.  

 

 Every year  until he was no longer able, he would gather up  anything that would burn, collected whatever could be added from all of his neighbors, to build a large conical, well sorta conical mound in his back yard.  

And there it sat for a few days, being admired and added to.  Just before the sun slipped below the horizon one night, the "old farmer" set the pile alite, usually with a thunderous roar of flames.   A sight to see, he never said exactly how he did that either.  He took that secret with him. 

 

Neighbors would come and go, some bringing fuel for the fire, some bringing beer and/or sodas. When the fire warmed up one side of those who gathered, we turned around to warm the cold side.  We did this  well into the night, talking, sharing stories, just catching up.  Winters were much harsher in those days, even though we were a used to our bitter January's, evenings outdoors were rare.  In a very different, and soul warming way this night was truly different. 

As the night went on, the world became  almost silent, people looking into the fire, speaking in hushed tones.  The blaze became a campfire, and gradually glowing coals.

When the coal burned down to embers, the darkness overtook us, and we walked home by the light of the moon reflecting off snow.