01/04/2026
Grandpa was already outside before anyone else woke up. Stoking the coals in the fire pit from last night. We were outside around the fire until nearly midnight telling stories, playing “going on a picnic” and singing songs.
Deer camp was when we left behind the modern day luxuries of electricity and running water and took to our campers in the state forest for a week.
Credit goes to grandma for the prep work. Cutting the peppers, celery and onions. The jars of tomatoes from her garden she had canned back in August. Soaking the beans overnight. And of course her special blend of chili spices, never measured,just felt.
A cast iron pot hung low over the flames, blackened from a lifetime of meals. He stirred it slow with a wooden spoon.
Every now and then he’d add more wood and poke the fire back to life.
As the pot bubbled, Grandpa talked about things that mattered. Stories of his father and grandfather and their hunting trips and cooking over campfires.
He was a quiet man, so I was intent on each story. Standing by a fire made it easier for him to open up.
Hearing him reminisce and laugh was enlightening. I had never thought of him being young. At 8 years old, he was always just grandpa to me.
The wind carried sparks up into the gray sky. I would watch them until they lost their glow.
The chili simmered and thickened.
When it was finally ready, Grandpa ladled it out into our bowls right there by the fire. Steam curled into cold air.
It tasted like smoke and warmth and memory.
Like something passed down.
We’d sit there long after the bowls were empty.
The fire burned strong.
The cast iron still warm, holding onto this story for me to share.
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