The Golden Valley

I lived on a 160 acre farm in the Ozarks with a bunch of folks for a while. Due to an unfortunate nickname epidemic, I was on trash detail one day with Ditto and The Grape, two of the bulkier dudes there. They unloaded 3 fifty gallon drums full of burnable garbage from a rusty old blue pick-up, and set them in a wide open bare field a good distance from the tree line that bordered the houses. They lit the trash barrels on fire and we started our tailgate party nearby. Cans of loose tobacco, rolling papers, chocolate bars, and soft drinks came out…

Suddenly a big wind rushed in and swept the top of the burning trash pile to the ground beside the barrels. We ran to stomp it out but flames quickly spread into a large circle in the sparse dry brown weeds. Within seconds, the fire headed for the tree line. Ditto jumped in the truck, drove to the kitchen and burst in shouting, “Fire in the valley!”

The blaze kept spreading keeping everyone up all night working furiously to stop it before it got further into the woods or to any neighboring houses. Every garden tool and blanket was used and the local fire fighters helped too. Some of us stayed in the kitchen handing out sandwiches, hot chocolate, salt tablets and washcloths for gritty faces. By dawn we were all exhausted. Only hot glowing boundary lines remained where the fire had been stopped by our rakes. Damage was minimal and no one was hurt.

The woods were forever changed and so were we. Many of us grew up that night and learned what was really important in life, like friends and neighbors, our earth, and our own mortality.

A year passed and the bare field grew too. A beautiful stand of golden grasses appeared where the burn had been, healing the blackened wounds. The fire had rendered the ground fertile. It became known as the Golden Valley and the story of the fire--a rite of passage--was never forgotten.