I’m not certain that the last isn’t as precious (only how can we know it at the time?) but it does seem a fire at the beginning of winter is — definitely should be — worthy of remark.

I treasure those memories as the call is made to the source of my seasoned and well-cut (if not particularly well-priced) firewood for the second time — or is it the third? He needs to be reminded not only of my order, my desire, but now especially my need. My burning need.

I count just enough left to last me through one lovely — and long — evening.

The red in the fire is beautiful, a symbol of heat in all its permutations. The bursts of yellow carry volcanoes of stories which I’ll leave for the younger romantics to slowly interpret. I smile, especially remembering one of those times. Some happy memories are made to not be repeated.

The coals are piled high. Partly because of a wish — desire? — I turned inventor, convincing my local auto mechanic to build what he insisted couldn’t be done. Well try, said I, and ultimately he would. The posts in front, all these many years later, still remain a godsend to make my fires carefree as well. Before, escaping cinders burned holes in a carpet so, when building, I selected tile … just to be sure. But now the three upright bars prevent any recalcitrant logs from trying to roll out the front. Ironically, the metal basket itself is disappearing (how is that possible?) while the supporting rods remain firmly in place.

Should I patent? It is an excellent idea. Think of marketing? Is it worth the struggle? Not now, I think. Not yet. I don’t expect I’ll ever have the time. Probably not maybe. Let me just be free to enjoy the beauty of the fire. Let someone else reimagine the same device … and market it. I’ll applaud as I did earlier submitted suggestions: a two-sided clock to go on the table between single beds (my parents bought one years later) and a remote-controlled kitchen-sink plunger which was actually on the market by the time I built the house. I bought one though don’t use it as often as I’d have expected. Still, it is a heaven-sent gift if party dishes are soaked overnight. No plunging arms up to elbows in cold greasy water. (Even sending in a suggestion brings long forms to be filled out, promising not to claim any rights should the product make it to market. Let me just enjoy.)

The red areas are lessening. The orange shrinking. Occasional flavors shout up the chimney but there are ever fewer as the moments pass.

The house is quiet.

The cat has settled in for her — for her what? a cat nap? She’s probably asleep for the night. The retriever, expecting my company but exhausted by the cat’s games, has gone easily to his bed.

It was a late night and I too should be exhausted. I should be and I know it.

Only a part of me hollers loud enough to drown out any immediate thoughts of slumber: Let me sit here while the embers still glow.

I enjoy the late quiet and use the time to reflect pensively. I also recognize my parsimony to the nth degree. Firewood is too expensive to be wasted, too precious not to be appreciated to its very last smidgen of life.

I curl up and sit quietly. I enjoy the peace. It’s something I never get enough of.

The last embers will soon extinguish themselves.

I can wait.

Susan Crossett has lived outside Cassadaga for more than 20 years. A lifetime of writing led to these columns as well as two novels. Her Reason for Being was published in 2008 with Love in Three Acts following in 2014. Both novels are now available at Lakewood’s Off the Beaten Path bookstore. Information on all the Musings, her books and the author may be found at Susancrossett.com.