We’re been working all day.  He’s created a month’s worth of activities for his job and I’m writing my next novel.  So when he says “We should make s’mores tonight, I think he’s brilliant.    FYI, we’re basically vegan and basic health food nuts.

I finish the chapter I’m writing.  We jump in his Honda and head down to Valley Market, Washington’s best convenience store, five minutes from the house.  At the entrance we find jumbo marshmellows.  Big as my fist.  Summer marshmellows, the clerk tells us and warns us of the goosh factor and to keep paper towels handy.  Find graham crackers.  He buys a high end dark chocolate bar for me.  He’s currently  off chocolate.

At home I return to writing until it is past dinner time.  Turn on PBS for some old Ed Sullivan show and fix a meal for us.  After rice and salad, he heads out into the dark garden to build a fire in the copper fire pit I bought six years ago.  Tonight we christen it.  The Rolling Stones are belting it out for PBS.  I open the screen door, crank the TV and take a bag of the necessary ingredients for s’mores.

I also take the dogs for their nightly outing.  The may not understand sitting under cedar trees on a warm autumn night while the humans giggle over goopy marshmellows.  As I stare into the fire, I am transported back to nights at Summerland beach, a camp fire as the waves lap closer, the adults drinking beer and being loud and we kids still running around, playing, ignoring our sunburns.  And eating s’mores.

I almost burn my marshmellow and well advised as to its monster drip, I have my graham cracker ready to catch the gooey mess, shove on a piece of chocolate and marvel at the oddity of this summer wonder translating across decades.  Whoever created the marshmellow?  It really is a rare treat and not one to pine for.  The fire burns low.  Beamer begins to dig, circling around, digging a bigger and bigger area until she settles her white fur into the disrupted cedar duff.  Zee sits in my lap wondering if he can lick my sticky fingers.  Ruby Tuesday glides over lilies and catnip.  We laugh over nothing.

I won’t covet another s’more for a long time but it is a lovely night with the glow of the fire now a soft orange.  Summer ending in Bellingham.  Subdued excitement.

We’re been working all day.  He’s created a month’s worth of activities for his job and I’m writing my next novel.  So when he says “We should make s’mores tonight, I think he’s brilliant.    FYI, we’re basically vegan and basic health food nuts.

I finish the chapter I’m writing.  We jump in his Honda and head down to Valley Market, Washington’s best convenience store, five minutes from the house.  At the entrance we find jumbo marshmellows.  Big as my fist.  Summer marshmellows, the clerk tells us and warns us of the goosh factor and to keep paper towels handy.  Find graham crackers.  He buys a high end dark chocolate bar for me.  He’s currently  off chocolate.

At home I return to writing until it is past dinner time.  Turn on PBS for some old Ed Sullivan show and fix a meal for us.  After rice and salad, he heads out into the dark garden to build a fire in the copper fire pit I bought six years ago.  Tonight we christen it.  The Rolling Stones are belting it out for PBS.  I open the screen door, crank the TV and take a bag of the necessary ingredients for s’mores.

I also take the dogs for their nightly outing.  The may not understand sitting under cedar trees on a warm autumn night while the humans giggle over goopy marshmellows.  As I stare into the fire, I am transported back to nights at Summerland beach, a camp fire as the waves lap closer, the adults drinking beer and being loud and we kids still running around, playing, ignoring our sunburns.  And eating s’mores.

I almost burn my marshmellow and well advised as to its monster drip, I have my graham cracker ready to catch the gooey mess, shove on a piece of chocolate and marvel at the oddity of this summer wonder translating across decades.  Whoever created the marshmellow?  It really is a rare treat and not one to pine for.  The fire burns low.  Beamer begins to dig, circling around, digging a bigger and bigger area until she settles her white fur into the disrupted cedar duff.  Zee sits in my lap wondering if he can lick my sticky fingers.  Ruby Tuesday glides over lilies and catnip.  We laugh over nothing.

I won’t covet another s’more for a long time but it is a lovely night with the glow of the fire now a soft orange.  Summer ending in Bellingham.  Subdued excitement.