A Fall Tradition Gone Slightly Awry

Every autumn, usually around mid-October when the leaves are at their peak and the air carries that crisp, woodsmoke promise, my number-one son Christopher and I embark on our annual tradition: “The Log Run.” For the past decade, it's been our reliable ritual. We meet at the local feed store that doubles as an outdoor equipment haven and log headquarters. I hand over the cash for two hefty racks of split firewood, and he handles the heavy lifting—literally. His SUV hauls half to my place, where he stacks them neatly in my log rack, and the other half heads to his own woodpile. Simple, efficient, and a perfect excuse for mom-son time.

This year, though, something felt different. The logs were noticeably bigger—chunkier rounds that looked like they belonged in a lumberjack competition rather than my modest fireplace. They also carried a subtle dampness, the kind that hints at recent rain or hasty seasoning. No big deal, I thought. A little extra coaxing, and we'd have a roaring fire.

Cue the struggle. Matches fizzled out. Kindling refused to catch. Newspaper crumpled and burned too fast without igniting the bigger pieces. I was about to declare defeat when Christopher, ever the Eagle Scout, stepped in with his classic calm ingenuity.

"Roll up some corrugated cardboard," he said, "as tight as you can—like those fire starters we made in Scouts." Brilliant. I grabbed the pile of shipping boxes that had accumulated from recent deliveries and got to work. As I twisted and compressed the cardboard into dense logs of my own, inspiration struck: why stop there? The kitchen counter was littered with junk mail, glossy ads, coupon flyers—perfect fuel. I layered them in, rolling everything tighter and tighter until my hands cramped into what felt like permanent claws. (Note to self: invest in gloves next time.)

I tucked these homemade fire starters under the reluctant logs, struck a match, and... whoosh. Success! Flames licked up eagerly, crackling with life. The room filled with that warm, golden glow that only a real wood fire can deliver on a chilly fall evening. I stepped back, satisfied, and headed to the dining area to tidy up while the fire settled in.

That's when the aroma hit me.

Not just woodsmoke. Something savory. Meaty. Familiar.

Pork.

I turned slowly toward the fireplace. There, nestled among the glowing embers and curling edges of cardboard, was my last precious slice of smoked ham (Did I mention I had been making a sandwich?)—perfectly rolled up in my impromptu fire starter masterpiece. It had gone from fridge to inferno in one absent-minded moment. The ham sizzled faintly, releasing wafts of hickory-smoked goodness that mingled oddly (but deliciously) with the logs.

I stared, then chuckled. Smoked ham, anyone? Fresh from the fireplace, extra char-kissed.

Christopher would have been proud of the ingenuity... and probably horrified at my kitchen oversight. But hey, crisis averted, fire roaring, and a story for the ages. Sometimes the best traditions come with a side of unexpected barbecue.

Here's to cozy fall fires, resourceful sons, and the occasional accidental ham roast. May your log runs be smoother, your starters drier, and your snacks stay out of the flames.

This story is part of my series Life on Planet Pattie, about the foibles of life, resilience, and the occasional furniture-moving adventure.

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