Chapter Nine

Blaine drove west towards Bradenton. He took the tape with him but couldn't bring himself to listen to any more of it for a while. He didn't intend to go all the way to the beach, but ended up on Longboat Key. He absentmindedly followed the winding road along the beach side of the island. About a mile in, he parked his car on a public access road that was wedged in between two mom and pop motels. The wind was blowing through the sea pines and the tide was coming in. He just sat and stared at the blue-green water. It was Monday, so there was only a handful of people on the beach: families and couples laughing, sunning, taking it easy. The memories rolled into his mind like the gentle Gulf waves he was watching.

When Blaine was growing up, at least a month of every summer had been spent on this island. His family would rent a house and they'd live like beach bums. Every morning, they would gather towels and buckets and shovels and sundry-shaped flotation devices and walk the little shell-strewn path from the house to the beach. The sea oats and pines divided the quaint island cottages from the breathtaking beauty of the Gulf of Mexico. The happy little troupe would find a break in the sea oats and step onto the beach and into another world.

When the sun got straight overhead they would trudge back to the house for lunch and a siesta out of the midday sun. About three, or earlier if he could wear his parents down, they would all don their sun-baked swimsuits and head back to the water. He didn't remember ever being bored at the beach. Swimming, digging trenches in the sand, shelling, walking, walking, walking. He never tired of it. And now, sitting here alone, it was so peaceful that he fell asleep for about twenty minutes.

On the way home he stopped at a roadside produce stand. He decided that the name of the place must have been Three Old Drunks' Farm, because that's certainly who was running the place. He walked around a bit, more to stretch his legs than anything. He meandered through the maze of wooden tables laden with fresh produce not really sure what he was looking for.

In the back, were three, huge, metal oil drums sitting on a big grate. Underneath them was a magnificent fire. The flames licked up and around the sides of the sooty, black barrels.

He found the giant, outdoor fire mesmerizing. He stood with his hands in his pockets and watched it for a long time. So long that he knew he was worrying at least two of the Old Drunks. He tried to figure out why he couldn't take his eyes off that fire. He had never paid much attention to indoor fires, the kind in fireplaces. They were too contained, too civil. 

But this outdoor fire was raucous, dangerous, uncertain; built with sticks and bigger sticks. An outdoor fire is not framed by a decorative mantle strewn with candlesticks and pictures of the grandbabies. An outdoor fire is not a backdrop for anything; it’s not built to enhance a mood or be a conversation piece. No, outdoor fires are pure function; they're used by hardy people to cook or burn trash or keep the coyotes away. Outdoor fires are necessary; to protect tired hunters and fishermen and campers from the cold. And an outdoor fire might get out of hand at any moment—like a bad relationship. And burn down the barn. His daddy would have made a sermon out of these thoughts. Blaine laughed to himself.

Blaine stared silently. What was it about this fire that made it so pleasant and relaxing? The flames performed a disorganized, angry dance around those big cans as he began to slowly realize why he was captivated. All the memories he had of big, outdoor fires were associated with happy things. 

Like watching his grandmother burn stuff. Granny was a throwback to the pioneer days. She believed she could handle anything on her own, right down to burning her own trash. No fooling with some government-paid men to haul her trash away, no siree. That was as wasteful a proposition as she could think of. Why, she had that big old piece of land out back of the house and she could burn up more stuff in a day than those men could haul away in a week. She’d pile it all up over the course of an afternoon. About dusk she’d douse it all in flammable liquid and set it ablaze. She knew how to contain it so that it didn't burn up the surrounding countryside. Watching her old furniture and trash burn in those giant fires were some of the most delightful memories of Blaine’s childhood.

Another happy memory of fire was overnight camping on the river. About twice a year his Uncle Dudley would take Blaine and a cousin or two down the river on the pontoon boat. They'd go about as far as Punta Gorda or Port Charlotte and stop to camp for the night. Their camp would be bare bones functional and not resemble anything like the camping scenes in the movies. They'd set out to gather sticks and hope they'd find enough dead, dry wood to make a decent fire. Those camping fires were no match for the ones his granny could build, but each boy would smell wonderfully of smoke for days, nonetheless.

Last in the “fire file” in his brain was the giant bonfire at church camp. After a week of archery contests, softball tournaments and nightly revved-up revival meetings, the camp counselors would gather burnable materials all day for a bonfire. It was the highlight of the week. Apparently, the cafeteria workers needed that last night to do an overhaul on the kitchen before closing it up for the summer, so dinner was hotdogs and marshmallows toasted in that fire. The most thrilling part of the evening, of the entire week, really, followed dinner. It was an unspoken ritual that on the last night of camp, at the bonfire, each boy would sidle up to whatever girl he had been eyeing all week and invite her to sit with him during the sing-along. The air was charged with anxiety and hormones. Blaine felt like he was going to break out in a sweat just remembering it.

His brain bounced to another thought as he stood spellbound by the flames: Fire makes me happy the same way the smell of cigarette smoke does. He realized that this was a strange phenomenon. In his family, on both sides, smoking was considered a sin. Nobody smoked. Or admitted they did, anyway. This meant when he was growing up, Blaine only smelled cigarette smoke once a year—at the fair. So, in spite of never being around smokers, the smell of cigarettes was associated with happy crowds, bright lights, and loud music. It was a fun smell, a happy smell. His daddy said so, too. Blaine remembered how shocked he was as a teenager to hear his daddy say that he liked the smell of cigarette smoke. It made his daddy seem a little less holy, a little more “worldly.” Blaine stopped his inner ponderings and wondered, "How did I start thinking about the smell of cigarettes? Oh, yeah, fire."

On that day, this particular fire he was watching was boiling peanuts. He bought a pound of them, and then thought to himself, “I need a cold drink.”

“Ha! Now where did that come from?” Blaine laughed at himself. He had never heard anyone north of Lake City say cold drink. "You wanna cold drink?" in rural Florida specifically means a soda or pop, or whatever other folks call a carbonated drink. It is said as if it was one word and is pronounced "coal-drank". He was scaring himself now with how quickly he could slip back into old habits. On the drive back to Clyettville, he fished those peanuts out of the big, Styrofoam cup that “One Drunk” had put them in. Fire, boiled peanuts, and cold drinks. He had regressed to his cracker roots for sure.

Cracker roots. Blaine’s thoughts turned to the funeral. He wished he didn't have to go. Was there any acceptable reason to not attend your own daddy’s funeral? Of course not. Nostalgia for his daddy caused him to reach for the tape. He pushed it into the slot. Big Carl’s voice jarred Blaine from his relaxed state of mind.