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Alone With My Friends

Imagine for a moment, a bone-chilling winter's night. The sky ranges in color from rolling grey to black. A gentle snow falls, adding to the three inches already on the ground. I can't sleep. I stare out my bedroom window at the pristine snow as it lays in my back yard like a giant cotton blanket. My wife breathes softly and deeply, lost in slumber. I hear my son stir briefly, then settle back down to his rest. I am restless. My dog, Maggie, nudges me, wanting a better view out the window herself.

Pulling my heavy flannel overshirt on, I open the back door and receive an icy blast. I pull the bill of my cap down low over my eyes and lean into the wind, watching my dog frolic in the deep snow and catch flakes on her nose as they dart to the earth.

I strain to open the barn door, pushing a great pile of drift away from the entrance. I reach up on the wall for the container of kitchen matches, for it is very dark inside--there is neither moon nor stars out tonight. I find the match and spark it to life. I light an oil lamp, then another. The warm yellow glow flickers off the rough-hewn planks and seems to warm the inside instantly, even though I can see my breath in great clouds of vapor. I see my favorite things around me: horse collars, bridles, the hide of my first deer, turkey feathers, dried flowers, old pictures, western novels, wagon wheels, old lanterns...they all seem like old friends.

My pile of logs is stacked neatly against the wall. I retrieve two pieces of cedar. The aroma of a cedar fire adds to the warm feeling. I carefully lay the logs on tinder already arranged in the old parlor stove, along with a small twist of brown paper bag that lights instantly. Maggie sits eagerly watching my every movement, happy to be sharing this special time with me.

I open the damper, giving the young flame all the air it wants. It quickly grows into a crackling little blaze. Closing the door of the stove, I can see the warm, red-orange glow within through the cracked mica plates.

The stove radiates heat to the cozy room in minutes; the wood sharing the end of its life. I swing the ornamental top of the stove on its hinge and place my blue enameled coffeepot on the burner. I grind coffee beans and pour them right into the singing water. Let it boil awhile. Let the smells of coffee and cedar mingle. Let me sit in my old, creaky oak rocker and glide to and fro as I read my favorite stories. Let me close my eyes, smell the campfire, and drink the coffee now steaming in a kettle hanging from a forked stick. Maggie circles and settles down on the oval braided rug beneath my feet. The glow of the fire in the stove makes her yellow fur shine like brass.

My wife wakes, aware I am not there in bed with her. She arises and goes to the window. She sees the warm yellow glow of the flickering oil lamps in the barn, and worries that I am cold. But I am very, very warm. I am alone with my friends.

Mark Wilson