Burning

Just a few days ago, I made up a batch of Spam spread sandwiches. This is a 'recipe' that dates back to the long lost days of my youth. My mother would make these sandwiches for all of her after game parties she held in the early 1970s. Celebrations held every Friday night through football and basketball season. Cans of Spam shredded with a cheese grater, along with cheddar cheese. Also from a time when cheese had to be grated up, as well. 

Mixed up with sweet pickle relish, 'Miracle Whip' mayonnaise and horseradish sauce, spread onto hamburger buns and wrapped individually in 'tin foil' packets. Don't forget the salt and pepper, because you cannot have Spam sandwiches without that extra salt! And then baked in the oven until warm and toasty!

Having not purchased Miracle Whip in decades, I use a dollop of our ever present jar of mayonnaise from the fridge. Also, because it is 2023, these gooey ooey sandwiches are simply wrapped up in a paper towel and microwaved for 30 seconds each. Even minus the numerous glass dishes filled with mixed nuts and butter mints, these sandwiches never fail to transport me back to my single digit years.

I read a line in a book a few years back that stated, 'Every time a person dies, a library burns'. All of their thoughts, feelings and memories just bleeped away with that last breath. This week, my cousin passed away. obituary Born just one month after me, she was the closest cousin to me in age. I have memories of many summer days spent playing Barbies in her bedroom or puddling through the reeds in the Bass Lake shallows.

This June is fourteen years since my father passed away. Fourteen years, and feels like both an eternity and a single moment, at the same time. I never don't miss him. Yet, this season I forgot until the day after the anniversary of his passing. It hurts my heart to think I could forget, even for that single moment. Just couple weeks earlier, we celebrated what would have been his 96th birthday with our yearly glass of Gin and pink lemonade in his honor.

Pungent smoke hangs heavy,

caught tight inside the bitter cold.

Wood burned red hot,

loses its blistered heat.

Sweet thoughts of times gone by,

are held inside the fragrant scent of burning pine.

Suspended in the ringlets,

locked frozen in the winter harshness,

crackling logs bring recollections of autumn days

and summer eves.

The scents and senses of childhood

joys and friendships lost.

A wisp of wind spirals

the perfume of melancholy memories away.