The rainy season, among other things, is the time of year when the burn permits get renewed, and we start gathering brush from around the property into large piles. Trimmings from pruning, fallen tree branches that are too small or unwieldy to be cut into firewood, whatever I was unable to keep alive and died... the Christmas tree... all get placed in piles around the property.
Two weeks ago, it was cold and wet and rainy. (My favorite kind of weather) And it was the middle of April. But within one day, we went from having the woodstove burning and chilly 55 degree days to 85 degrees and so sunny. So warm and sunny. Spring had sprung right into summer apparently, and we needed to burn our piles of detritus before the wild grass turned golden brown and we were baking in the full summer heat.
Burn day is always an exciting event. Papa has a shovel or a pitchfork in one hand and a toddler usually in the other. He approaches the brush pile with the same comfortable ease that he approaches most things. I, on the other hand, have a baby strapped to me in one form or another, and am usually trailed by two other children who are chattering away, asking questions and moving on to the next query before I have a chance to give an answer or exclaiming about a wildflower or a butterfly and skipping around me. Needless to say, I am already stressed because of the noise and growing more so as we draw near.
It is fascinating and terrifying to see a burn pile go up in flames. Even if it's snowing, even if it's just rained---the bottom of the brush is dry and crisp, and just a little flame is all it takes. Papa only has to coax the smallest tendrils of smoke before the little fire catches from one twig to the next. Crackle, crackle, and then a growl that becomes a roar as the whole pile takes off in one angry blast of fire. I always feel rather silly standing there at the fire's edge with my pitchfork, or if we're close enough to a spout, the hose to soak the surrounding ground. When you're staring into a flame that is as tall or taller than you are; when you see how fast it has taken off, and how quickly it consumes everything in it... what am I going to do with a pitchfork to stop this living burning thing? Nothing. That's what. I'm just standing here with the pitchfork to appear useful. Probably more effective at keeping curious children from getting too close than anything else. (I don't actually use the pitchfork on my children.)
Tending a burning brush pile resembles a dance to me. My husband goes in and adjusts a tree limb that is out of place, drawing it more towards the center of the flame. He pulls away little branches that have fallen out of our safety circle. He adds more brush when the flames have died down, and he will push down with hands and feet, the spindly twigs and branches that aren't laying down flat. He circles and circles the fire, monitoring the height of the flames, tracking the glowing flakes of ash that sometimes fly into the air and quickly stomping them out. And once he is satisfied that the flames have been tamed, he leaves me to watch the fire burn down until it's nothing left but glowing embers and smoking coals while he goes to tend the next pile.
Why do we burn? We have a large property that has a lot of trees. Trees with limbs that have fallen from the winter rain storms, or just due to dying out. We also live in the heart of wildfire country. The first two years we lived here, we couldn't go outside during the summer because the sky was gray from the smoke of the fires in the valleys surrounding our home. It was not safe to breathe. Neighbors will tell us of the time when you could see the orange line of flame right about the hillside ridge behind our house. The rolling green meadows around our little farm house turn golden brown and bone-dry under the relentless summer sun, so much so that you are advised not to even mow the lawn after early morning because if the lawnmower strikes a rock that sparks... I know people who were riding through on their mowers and seeing a spark from the blades, dove off of their machine to snuff the littlest tendril of smoke because that's all it takes to start a fire.
Burn days are over now as we just had our first day over 90 degrees. The green hills are already starting to grow golden, and I hope that this summer there will be no wildfires. That is why we mow grass and clear brush, rake dirt paths and work early in the morning. (Well, my husband works early. You're lucky to get me up before 8 am. I'm a bad farmer. I know.)
As the summer approaches, we prepare for the heat as best as we can. Stay safe, everyone.
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