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YESTERDAY MY YARD MAN dragged lawn debris and several big logs down to the assigned spot in our meadow, and we hosted the Bonfire! The Harvest Moon Festival! (Well, okay, our annual frankie roast [ahem, yes, of course--go ahead and call it a weenie roast if you insist, Reader Dear; I was going for a little more class, that's all).

The yard man got started early in the day...lighting the fire and burning up the sticks and limbs and other trash from the yard. He built a good base of coals. He encircled the whole thing with chairs.

Meanwhile, I built a good base of plates, cups, napkins, rolls, and all the needed et cetera. I built up my hopes for cooperative weather, as well.




All of the building paid off.



When the last of my yard man's aunts, uncles, cousins, and...well, all the guests...had sighed with regret to be leaving while those oak embers still blissfully burned, groped around the dark tables and gathered their half-empty containers of contributed food (there is always an abundance of non-wienie edibles), thank you-thank you'd and taken their leave, my yard man and I sat by the murmuring fire and chortled. The jist of our exclamations: "Stars above, we're so lucky!"
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