Oh come on, everyone remembers that song. Seriously? You don’t. Oh dear, what has the world come to.
Yesterday, me and my cousin, the Singing Farmer, had our now annual bonfire. He burns all the flammable trash from the farm. I burn all the crap furniture and what I have stripped out of the house. That blue object to the left. That is mom’s old recliner sofa, covered in waste oil. Mom would have said “oh, someone could use that.” No. No no no. I had all the mold-infested ceiling tiles from downstairs in the pyre, not to mention almost a forklift load of paneling and trim from the basement. There was a desk from Staples that fell apart after a year and a half. An old wooden table that would have been an attractive piece if my mother had kept it up. As you can see, it made a fantastic pile.
The Singing Farmer poured waste oil over some of it and diesel on the ceiling tiles. It caught fire as soon as he applied the lighter and by the time it spread to the couch, ’twas a glorious conflagration. We watched it for about ten minutes and when it was obvious that it was not going to spread beyond the rockpile we left the site.
We did a couple of things around the farm, plugging in the headbolt heater on a tractor, shutting doors, etc. By the time we left the farmstead, I could see the flames and smoke had died down.
That couch was probably the last piece of my mother’s furniture that gets the torch. I was so glad to see it go. It had been taking up a huge chunk of space in the garage and that space was far more important that the memory of my mother camped out on that thing, fading away slow. I have plenty of memories I want to keep. There are some that are better to be burnt.