On a cold, crisp winter day, we sat near a roaring fire at the DeSoto State Park Lodge Restaurant in Northern Alabama. As we enjoyed the warmth of both the fire and the soup, two women walked into the room and headed immediately to the fireplace.
“It’s a real fire!” exclaimed one.
“It’s not gas logs,” said the other.
And they both backed up to the heat as many of us are prone to do whenever we see a real fire.
The night before, we ate supper by a campfire we had built at a lake in a Corps of Engineers Park near West Point, Georgia. In the middle of the week on such a cold evening, we were the only campers in the campground other than those manning the entrance. The heat from the burning logs invited us to linger outside to watch nightfall. As the darkened heavens filled with twinkling stars, we keenly felt the warmth both of the fire and of the gratitude for such opportunities.
Each night as the temperatures dropped below freezing, we also consciously appreciated the electric blanket in our camper. While we always enjoy the serenity of a campground, we really don’t stray too far from creature comforts. As I lay in bed snugly warm and looked out the window at the winter sky, I kept remembering a scene from All Together in One Place by Jane Kirkpatrick. In this fictionalized story based on the recorded sighting of a wagon train with only women and children headed eastward on the Oregon Trail, one of the characters struggles for warmth under a few handmade quilts in a covered wagon. Although she knows that she’s warm enough not to freeze, she never finds the cozy warmth we expect as our due in modern society.
Along our backroad drives with many of the trees now winter bare, we could see chimney smoke rising from houses nestled in the valleys and perched on hillsides. When we reached our destination at Cloudland Canyon State Park on the western edge of Lookout Mountain, we never took the time to build another fire. There was too much to see. As we had planned this winter trip to the mountains, we hesitantly decided to head west instead of our usual trek to the northeastern side of the state. Because we wanted to go to the Tennessee Aquarium on this trip, we decided to take a chance on Lookout Mountain, part of the Appalachian Range.
We had never been there because we couldn’t shake those old images of “Visit Rock City at Lookout Mountain” signs painted on barn roofs and rocks for miles around. For some reason, those signs never made the place appealing to us. However, knowing that we could always leave if we didn’t like what we found, we began this brief journey.
We’re glad we did. Although the old tourist sites still exist, much of this elongated, narrow mountain range remains in a natural state. The state park and a national forest claim a major part of the land. Farmland, however, is giving way to summer homes for those who live in Chattanooga and Atlanta. However, even these elegant homes hide within the landscape. We could see more of them only because many of the multitude of trees were winter bare. And, the long mountaintop drive eventually winds its way down into the heart of Chattanooga.
Back home safely in South Georgia where winter is more a time marked on a calendar than a season whose harsh conditions we have to wrestle with as so many people in the country do, I’ve watched the televised aftermath of some of the horrendous storms hitting not only the U.S., but also the rest of the world. Of course, the Tsunami in South Asia is by far the worst. Once again, via television, we watch victims struggle for survival. And, we’ve feel pride in the great generosity of Americans once again.
We are a contradictory people, not only as a nation divided in red and blue states, but also in our own personal gratifications. We stop to give magnanimously to those in need, but we often fail to stop long enough to give ourselves what we really need. Oh, we buy plenty of stuff. Our dumps testify to that. But do we, as the women in the restaurant, seek the real warmth of a real fire, take advantage of the heat and with a sigh of relief, appreciate the momentary contentment fully when we find it?
Sometimes, we have to wait for winter bare trees in order to see the camouflaged blessings surrounding us.
2005
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