Hobo Pies

Gavin pulled into the driveway, home at last. It was nearing dinner time but I knew as soon as he got out of the car & went to the garage, we’d be eating late tonight. He walked out with chain saw in hand, ready to go to work for the second time today.

He cut & I dragged the dead branches to the burn pile. Cut & drag, cut & drag, back & forth until we had a heap of branches mounded to the sky.

As dusk settled in, he started the fire. We continued on until we couldn’t see anymore. Darkness covered us up like a blanket. Finally the question of dinner arose. He suggested cooking over the fire. I was hoping he’d say that. Hobo pies it was.

He walked up to the house & returned with a plastic bag of ingredients. As he began making them, I looked over to see an impressive size slab of butter on his knife, about to be slathered onto the bread. Pizza sauce, salami & cheese slices to follow. Then we slid the metal onto the coals.

While we waited, he picked up a bundle of cut branches to re-stack on the fire. They burned bright at the ends, glowing orange against the ink-black sky. They were about 3 feet long, each branch exactly the same & perfectly cylindrical, like an armful of over-sized birthday candles for a giant’s cake.

He tossed them on & the fire hissed, sparks twirling up like dancing bits of light, eventually vanishing into the blackness. We sat on the hand-hewn sandstone blocks bordering the driveway & watched the flames pirouette with the wind. My head slumped over to find his shoulder. I closed my eyes, welcoming the somnolent warmth of the fire.

“I hope you like this ’cause we’ve got a lot more work like this to do,” he declared, “a lot more trees to cut.” I did. I loved it, actually. And while my body ached & my eyelids grew heavy, I couldn’t have been more thankful, sitting side by side eating charred pizza sandwiches on a Saturday night.