This oak leaf is looking pretty lonely all by itself. Soon, it will join the others to carpet the forest floor.

What do you think? On my walk through the woods yesterday I came across this lovely tree that appears to have a staircase fit for a fairy or wee elf growing on it. It even has a handrail that is built in!

Fire Woman. My self-proclaimed-Indian-style name. Well…Rick calls me that too. No pyromania; and not like the little girl in Stephen King’s old book, Firestarter. No, this is different.  I just have a knack for getting a fire burning nicely. [See last night’s fire above and see if you don’t agree!] I couldn’t resist building a fire even though it wasn’t that cold last night, but after nearly 3 inches of rain during the day it just felt a bit chill and damp.

I love wood fires. There is something so much warmer, more bone-penetrating about that kind of heat. A nice fire can also take the place of television. Before we had television at the cabin, our fireplace served as “cabin TV.” Staring into the ever-changing pattern of flames is mesmerizing; relaxing.

Back when we used to tent camp, I would be the first one up in the morning to build the fire. Rick always got up after I had the fire giving off shimmering waves of heat. He isn’t as good at starting fires. You can’t just throw a log on the fire with a little bit of paper underneath it and expect great things to happen. You have to build it, starting with a good foundation [much like building a relationship] or it’s not going work.

You start with some tightly wadded up paper. Next, a couple of sticks of fatwood if you have it. On top of that goes tiny kindling; like small twigs or shards that fall off the log after splitting it. Something that will burn easily. Larger sticks come next with plenty of air space left in between. Finally, on the very top,  a nice fat log. Now when you light the paper, you should have a roaring fire in a matter of a few minutes. And, just like any good relationship, the fire needs nourishing and building up from time to time. You must keep an eye on it. Keep nice coals at all times. Don’t let the fire go out unless you want it to.

Hmm…I hadn’t really meant to wax philosophical on you this morning when I started this post. I was just going to write about my love of wood fires. The more I wrote the more I could see parallels to a relationship. There might be flame, but without something to support the flame, the fire will go out. A relationship takes building, nurturing, watching over, tending, fanning [every once in a while!], new fuel—just like a fire. And, just like a good fire, it warms you to your very bones. Whoa, that was deep for this early.

I guess Rick and I have done a pretty good job of tending our home fire since we just celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary this past month. Hard to believe it’s been that long. Hopefully, my next post [in the works now] will be about our WICKED-ly good anniversary. In the meantime, keep your home fires burning brightly!

It was a perfect evening for it. The air was crisp and frosty. The full moon, suspended in a clear sky, shone like a beacon to light the way. The tang of wood smoke drifted on the slight breeze from the campfires we would encounter along the way. A charming scene indeed, as we each picked up our lanterns burning brightly with a single candle and started our walk back into the 18th and 19th centuries.

We were about to take a Candle Lantern tour of the Long Pond Ironworks National Historic Landmark. Located in Hewitt (West Milford) and only a few miles from our house. We’ve passed the museum and out buildings many times, and each time we passed we vowed to find out what it’s all about. Ironmaking was really big in this area. Long Pond Ironworks was founded in 1766 and throughout both the Revolutionary and Civil wars, provided iron wares to the troops. I won’t go into the details now but if you are interested, a more detailed history can be found here.

We started off with our guide leading the way. We could see a a light burning on the porch of the nearest house. There we found a group of women in colonial dress sitting in a circle having their fortunes told. Our guide picked a tarot card from the fortune teller’s pack and she told him beware this night, there is trouble about. At about this time an eerie, piercing scream came from the woods in front of us.  The group oohed and aahed and we all smiled in anticipation.

The next stop was the Old Stone House where we could see a campfire burning brightly. Two cloaked figures ran past us while a woman in a mob cap yelled stop thief! you’ve taken my wood! She went on to tell a tale of how times were hard. She was cooking possum stew. Another woman joined her with a basket of laundry from the manor house [do you remember my blog entry on Ringwood Manor?]. They were going to take advantage of the full moon to get some work done. [Please, please let me come back as gentry and not a peasant if there is an afterlife!]

Screams still continued to pierce the frosty night air from time to time, sending shivers up and down our spine. [or were we just starting to feel the cold settle in?]

Our next stop was a barn where a gentlemen in wonderful full revolutionary soldier garb came to fetch his wife and take her somewhere safer for the night, as he was going out to hunt down the thieves that had robbed the manor house just a short time ago. Indeed, bad things were afoot tonight.

We started down the forest path which used to be the old main road to the center of the original town of Hewitt. The Wanaque River flowed at a fast pace over rocks and boulders to our right. It’s force was once harnessed to help operate the furnace and large iron forge.

Our next stop was found to be the source of the blood-curdling screams. Black Meg: a scary woman swathed in a black cloak from head to toe, holding a scythe and burning pungent-smelling herbs over a fire. She didn’t want company and told us to move on, strangers. According to our guide, Black Meg is a documented character from here. She shows up in several old writings, and he proceeded to tell us one of the tales about her. Probably a healer-type person misconstrued as a ‘witch.’

We met a German worker trudging down the road from the iron works. His face and clothing were covered in soot. He told us how hard he worked and how long his days were. But, he was grateful to have the chance for a new start in the New World.

The moon shone down on us, the river rushed by and we walked in peace until our final destination, the area where the furnaces had been. Here a true delight awaited us: Chief Wahoo’s Medicine Show and Phydeaux’s Flying Flea Circus Theatre [a humorous re-creation of the traveling medical pitchman’s “pipe” performed as it may have been seen and heard on a street corner at the close of the 19th century].

I felt like an expectant child again as I watched the magic of the show unfold before me. Our host was very, very good. He had us clapping and yelling for a deaf flea making a plunge from a balloon into a a cup of water; won audience participation to catch a flea shot out of a cannon, and made us laugh at his explanations of the ‘elixirs’ he had for sale. Thoroughly entertaining. All the while sitting on wooden board seats placed around a roaring fire. We reluctantly got up when the show was over. My neighbor, Kim, stated that she didn’t know when she had been more entertained in West Milford! She’s lived here some 20-some years which is saying something.

On the way back we encountered a couple of inebriated souls by the bridge. One was passed out; the other was still tipping the jug to his mouth. Poor things. Likely to freeze in this weather. We also came across a older lady pushing a wheelbarrow full of pumpkins and squash. She said she was on her way to market and had to get an early start or she wouldn’t be there in time to sell her wares. Alone, at night, with only a lantern? But in those days, most people didn’t have horses or any other means of conveyance except for their feet. Lastly, we encountered a woman concerned over her poor dear husband that was not at home as yet. Could he have met with danger, such as the robbers that were about that night? Naw, we told her, most likely he’s one of the men drunk by the bridge. She took off in a hurry to find him.

At long last we had to relinquish our hold on the past and rejoin our own century.  It certainly was fun while it lasted. I hope you’ve enjoyed your journey into the past with us as well. We’ll be taking another journey back as soon as they offer another one.

Oh my~! Lying in bed on Sunday morning I kept hearing a noise outside that was not familiar. Kind of like a small dog bark but not quite. I was still half asleep and not really wanting to get out of bed just yet. Then I heard the familiar clucking noise of the turkeys. TOMS! I thought right away. I sprang out of bed and looked out the window. Such a sight beheld my eyes. Two tom turkeys all puffed out with tails spread wide, along with 16 hens, all in my front yard.

Rick, Rick! I screamed in a whisper, it’s the Toms! Quick, come look!  I tore down the stairs to get the binoculars and my camera. Darn, the camera was in the car where I had left it. Okay, back upstairs to head for the bedroom with one window without a screen. I hand off the binoculars to Rick. Double darn—the camera battery is dead. Back down to fetch a freshly charged one. Finally I take my place at the window and open it about 3 inches or so so I can get my zoom lens out. Our oak tree is kind of in the way, but I do the best I can. Out of nowhere comes eBay (our cat in case you don’t know) and she’s halfway out the window before I grab her by her back and pull her back in. Good grief. It’s a wonder I got any photos at all.

Here they are when they aren’t all puffed up. They look pretty normal! Pretty amazing how they can make themselves look so imposing.

We watched them for a long time. They seemed in no hurry to leave our yard. The two toms seemed to perform a kind of ballet together. When they moved they did it in unison. They strutted around looking important and watching over the “girls.”  It was really a treat to watch. Finally they moved on to our neighbor’s yard.

I went outside to spread some more seed and there were a few turkeys in the side front yard. I didn’t know if they were “my” turks or part of the other band that were skiddish. I rattled the food in the bucket and did my turkey talk. They perked up and started running at full speed right over to the place I feed them. My turks—all six of them! My heart swelled with pride. Silly, I know, I know. But they came running right up to me making their little clucky noises. Who wouldn’t feel a sense of accomplishment? I was just so glad to see them as they hadn’t been around in a long time. I was hoping something hadn’t happened to them. Like ending up as someone’s Thanksgiving dinner! I’m glad they’re fine and that turkey season is over until the spring. Hopefully they will all come again.