We heard it every Sunday whenever there was a chill in the air: “Who wants a fie-oo in the fie-oo-place?”

Dad loved to build a good fire, hear the crackling sound of properly dried kindling, poking the coals together in the late evening, and maybe even taking a snooze in a nearby comfy chair.

It was only this week that I realized his obsession with building fires traced back to his youth. Way back

Ever since posting about Dad’s college graduation speech, I’ve been on the lookout for Providence College‘s literary magazine, as my father was on the editorial staff and eventually editor-in-chief.

Found them! The publication is call The Alembic.

So what does “alembic” mean? It’s a fancy word for a still (as in distillation). Remembering this was (and still is) a Catholic institution, I checked the second definition. It works: “Something that refines or transmutes, as if by distillation; for example, in philosophy: filtered through the alembic of Plato’s mind.”

The first edition I opened was from January of 1950, which was Dad’s junior year. Sure enough, he’d written a non-fiction essay about how to build the perfect fire.

Midwinter Night Enchantment

There is nothing more pleasurable on a cold, blustery winter night than to sit before a blazing hearth and gaze contemplatively into the dancing flames as they lick and curl hungrily about a crackling pine log. The radiant heat of the fire fills the room and penetrates one’s very soul with a warmth not unlike that of a bottle of old wine opened in the company of friends. But even as ancient vintage must be taken on an empty stomach and sipped slowly, ever so slowly, in order that the maximum enjoyment may be derived from it, so also must certain requirements be observed to insure an equally delightful evening at the fireside, rich in congenial reminiscences and enchanting reveries.

First of all, the kindling must be selected. Ideally it consists of several pine boughs with the cones still attached and a few strips of birch bark. In the absence of one, the other may be used; on no account is the use of crushed newspaper permissible, for it will permeate the room with a most distasteful odor and make it, for all practical purposes, uninhabitable.

The next step to be considered is the choice of a log. It should be of pine, 12 to 15 inches in diameter, and about three inches shorter than the width of the fireplace. The presence of a knots on its surface is desirable, although not imperative. The wood itself should be neither green nor dry, but at the stage when the bubbles of sap have become as thick as home-made taffy.

Then comes the task of placing the materials in their proper positions.

The kindling is arranged on the grate to form a cradle for the log, which is placed about six inches from the backwall. Now all is prepared for the actual lighting of the fire. This is performed on both knees, immediately in front of the hearth. The match is lit, with care taken that the acrid sulphur fumes go up the flue, and is applied to the birch bark. A lively crackling announces that the match has performed its appointed duty.

The fire has caught.

At once the arduous preparations are forgotten and the fireside easy-chair graciously accepts its burden. The room is in utter darkness except for the flickering tongues of flame and the red glow from the embers. It cast weird fantasmic shadows upon the walls, the ceiling, and the floor. Here is a witch, with peaked hat and broomstick, riding on some eerie, nocturnal mission; there, a knight in full battle array awaiting his charger.

The subtle fragrance of the forest fills the air and lulls the mind into that passive state in which it is most receptive to the offerings of the memory and the imagination. Visions of long-ago days begin to take form: the tender smiles of absent loved ones, a ramble through a woodland in autumn, a childhood visit to Grandma’s house on Christmas Day.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the flame lowers, flickers feebly, and loses itself among the glowing coals. The mind reluctantly wends its way onward through the long, winding road back to reality: the dying fire, the cozy room, the lateness of the hour. Outside, a howling gale, herald of the coming of a furious blizzard, whips the falling snow into a frenzied swirl and defies any creature to venture forth into its turbulent realm.

The fire is out. As total darkness closes in, a voice from the head of the stairs whispers softly to come up soon, for it is long after bedtime.
~ Harold E. Vayo, Jr., January 1950

Just by chance, when I found The Alembic, this book also caught my eye:

Yes, it’s pretty hard to read the title of this 85-year-old book. It’s The “How” Book of Scouting, published by the Boy Scouts of America in 1938.

Dad’s copy, it turns out, was a gift from the Boy Scouts he worked with in Lowell, Mass. Cub Scouts, actually.

I realized the Boy Scouts book was a gift when I opened the front cover:

There it is, up top on the right: Presented to Harold Vayo in recognition of service rendered as Den Chief and Patrol Leader in Troop and Pack 38.

And there are more signatures inside the back cover, too:

I have a feeling one of the Cubs who signed the book got a ride on Dad’s shoulders in this Boy Scouts parade.

Flipping through Dad’s book from the Boy Scouts, I wondered if his love of building fires might have originated back in the ’40s.

Dad patiently taught each of his four children to build a fire and tend to it carefully.

Here he is with young Billy in 1966.

As we entered our teens, Dad taught us to chop wood and stack it in the backyard. It was very satisfying to swing that ax and feel the wood split neatly in one try. It was downright painful when the ax bounced like rubber off the log.

In later years, Firewood Delivery Day was practically a holiday.

Oh, boy! Dad (and often now-grown Bill) would carefully stack the wood in the backyard and look forward to many crackling fires in the months ahead.

My father took his son-in-law‘s advice about five years ago and converted to a gas fireplace. The challenge of building the perfect fire was gone, but there was a big plus. Dad greatly appreciated not having to wait for the last ember to go out before climbing the stairs at bedtime. Mom appreciated the extra snuggle time, too.

Once a Scout, always a Scout.

Midwinter Night Enchantment © 1950, Harold E. Vayo, Jr. All rights reserved.

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