Chapter 1: A Cold Wind

A rustle of wind blows in from the surrounding trees, making me look up expectantly to the deep blackness of the night. I yearn that HE might appear. I dream of his gorgeous, tanned body. I imagine him walk out of the darkness and into the clearing of my campsite, the campsite of this frail and very anxious young woman. But instead, I see only shadows, cast by the swaying branches, illuminated by flickering flame of the burning campfire at my feet.

The wind blows hard and cold, hard enough to sway my hair over to one shoulder and cold enough to form a momentary chill in the air. It tingles as it brushes against the skin of my naked feet, legs, and bare thighs. Two drops of cold water, one on my red, possibly sunburned shoulder and the other at my knee, percolate down from the moist leaves above, still moist from a brief and relaxing thunderstorm from just an hour before. This causes me a shiver and I am tempted me to reach for the blanket at my side, but then I remember the heat of the day.

As Papa liked to say, the day had been "hotter than a roasted jalapeno in Baja." The sun shined bright and the humidity made it unbearable. It was a typical hot Midwestern summer day, one of those days when the air so heavy you just knew it was going to storm. And then it did! Just as the sun went down, a thunderstorm roared in from the northwest, bringing with it the wind and thunder of an angry God through the trees.

I retreated into the confines of my stifling tent to let it pass; praying all the trees remained upright and no water gathered to flood my campsite and wash my little body away. I found myself wishing HE sat with me, protecting me, calming me as I sat helpless and alone, listening to the thunder crack, the wind roar, and the rain pound on the sides of my little tent like a thousand angry fists.

And then it was over. It lasted only a few minutes, and then it passed.

I crawled back out of the tent and into a different world. Small branches lay strewn around the campsite. My bare feet became wet on the soggy grass. It was a wet, muddy, but also a much more comfortable world. I think the storm dropped the temperature by a good 20 degrees, enough to cause a chill in the air as I...

... now sit alone in face of the fire. The chill, however, lasts only a moment before the roaring flame of the campfire rises to my protection. It swells upward in the breeze, flames leaping into the air and seeming to nearly touch the overhanging branches. It radiates increased warmth as though to apologize for the chill caused by its misbehaving cousin, the wind.

I feel proud of the campfire; even a little surprised at the ease it took to build. The last time I camped was as a child, probably ten years ago. We used to camp often as a family. I wished we still did, but the outings sadly came to stop after my parents needed start paying tuition for my five older brothers. Papa promoted education above all else. His own experience as a southern immigrant working in the farm fields of California and Arizona provided ample reason. He said we had to "cut the corners" in his own imperfect English, and the summer camping trip up from Chicago to the beautiful forests of Northern Minnesota, Wisconsin, and the Upper Peninsula were one of the saddest cuts I had to endure. It took a surprising lot of money to go camping with a family of seven, or at least that's what Papa said.

I discovered the campfire was surprisingly simple to build. "Kidder must first remember," I still remember Papa instructing my older brothers. "Must let fire breath. Gotta make open at bottom to suck air." I still remembered his words, and it was a lucky thing I did, for Papa never let me build a fire myself. I grew up in what could best be described as a traditional Catholic family where men did the hunting and the women stayed in the kitchen. Well, maybe it wasn't quite that bad, but Papa and Mamma did teach us very clear lines of division between the sexes. This applied to the summer camping trip as well as our everyday lives. The making of a campfire clearly lay on the "manly" side of the fence, as did grilling, fishing, and maybe even a little hunting if Papa and my brothers got the chance. The more mundane tasks fell under the woman's domain, like setting the picnic table and washing dishes.