Happy Father's Day to All the Daddies...

Here's an old story (in poetry)
about the fireplace my father built
in our backyard in West Paterson, NJ.

Remembering my father, Frank H. Walsh
on Father's Day...

My parents, Frank & Frances Longo Walsh
and baby Maude at my first Christmas in 1944.

OUR BACKYARD FIREPLACE

While camping along a river

in the Catskills with our family

during the 1950’s

Dad constructed a small rock dam

along the riverbank

to hold back enough water

to keep our beverages icy cold

We sat upon some of those river rocks

and dangled our feet

in the swiftly flowing mountain water

watching silvery minnows

maneuver around our toes

So many smooth grey rocks

gave my father an idea, so

when we were getting ready to leave

and the station wagon was packed

with all our equipment

Dad loaded every empty crevice

of the vehicle with as many rocks

as it could possibly hold

To vacate the campground

it was necessary to drive

across the river over

a creaky old covered bridge

Dad wasn’t at all sure the bridge

was strong enough

to permit the crossing

of our rock-laden station wagon

(which must have weighed

as much as an armored tank)

He told Mom and us kids

to walk across the bridge

then he slowly and carefully

with chassis nearly scraping ground

drove successfully across

Back home, Dad used those rocks

to build a backyard fireplace

which became the gathering place

for family and neighbors

centered around spectacular

blazes on warm summer nights

We roasted hot dogs and potatoes and

corn-on-the-cob and threaded marshmallows

on sticks and toasted them till they were charred

We sang, “Michael, Row the Boat to Shore”

and every camp song we could remember

and tossed woodchips into the fire

to watch the sparks fly

Once the fire blazed so high

someone from a block away

called the West Paterson Fire Department

and long red fire trucks, sirens blaring

pulled up in front of our house

Dad got a warning, squelched the flames

and offered the firemen hot dogs and beer

Many favorite memories were kindled

while swatting mosquitos

collecting fireflies in jars

watching our marshmallows burn to a crisp

under shooting sparks and stars

and summer moons

around that river rock fireplace

on Jackson Avenue

so many years ago

Maude Carolan Pych