Susan

I'm writing this from a seat by the fire, outdoors but not camping. I'm at Susan's, and she says she "loves everything about getting back to nature except the actual arrival." So we are outdoors, on comfy chairs, with a fire in her firepit. The oak logs smell wonderful burning, and the flame is both warm and bright, so we are enjoying the best aspects of camping as much as one can without adding in the necessary discomforts.

Susan would not have enjoyed anything like 'nature' at all if it hadn't been for her two experiences stepping into Narnia. She is definitely what one would call a 'town' girl, or cosmopolitan, or maybe 'sophisticated lady.' She was old enough in WWII to remember the times before, which were for her happy times of social events in the company of her mother, and grandly solemn times with both parents in the 'upper circles.' I think her father was a diplomat and the family mixed with the higher spheres of the international world, but I may be mistaken.

She is one of my oldest friends. I don't mean we've known each other forever, but that relatively she is old when I am young, or at least younger. We are friend nontheless, through our common fictionality.

Tonight we share the brightness and aroma of a natural fire, surrounded by the dim sounds of American civilization - the quieting buzz-hum of the distant freeway, the laughs of neighbors watching the World Cup, the TV in the living room where my cousins are watching a cooking show. Susan is more bundled up than I, wrapped in long coats with a warm hood on and a blanket over it all. The air does not carry that much chill, but our discussion is covering rather ... empty spaces in our lives. At such time bundles and the warmth of fire are welcome indeed.

It grows dark, with the fog-driven wind sinking down through the trees above us. Time to sit together and stare at the flames and cover old ground with talk.