A couple months ago, I got a bee in my bonnet about putting a fire pit in my yard. Whenever I get excited about a project, I have to say I’m going to do it five or six times before I actually do it. So I did that. I’d say, “I’m thinking about building a fire pit,” and my friends would say, “Yeah! Do it!” and a few weeks later, I’d say, “I’m thinking about building a fire pit.”
Ten days ago, I decided I would have some folks over for New Year’s Eve, but my house is really small, and it was going to be too cold for the deck. So I built a fire pit. Impending events are very motivating to me.
I got online and checked out some plans and videos. I thought maybe I’d make it flush with the ground—I just liked that aesthetic—but when I asked for advice, one of my friends said to build a little wall around it so people would have a place to put their feet. That’s what I planned.
I bought a ton of Appalachian river stone from the Rock Shop. (My knight-in-law delivered it to my house in his truck.)
On Thursday
While I was digging, a guy driving by slowed down.
Him: You diggin a well?
Me: Fire pit.
Him: You doin it yourself?
Me: (flinging dirt into wheelbarrow) Yep.
Him: You all right.
The soil in my yard is hard-as-shit red clay. I didn’t want to end up installing an ersatz vase that would hold rain and become a mosquito hot spot, so for drainage
Another neighbor, Albert, who lives across the street with his 98-year-old mother and has about six teeth altogether in his head, came over.
Albert: You plantin a tree?
Me: Nope. Making a fire pit.
Albert: You gon have somebody do it for ya?
Me: …I’m doing it myself.
Albert: How you know to do it?
Me: I just got on the internet and looked at some plans.
Albert: Innernet. I don believe in the innernet.
Me: …
Albert: That innernet datin done me wrong.
I thought about saying, “Me too, Albert. ME TOO.” But I just wanted him to go away so I could get back to work, and I’ve already dealt with one neighbor of an inappropriate age and tooth-count asking me out and sending me Valentines(!), so I didn’t say anything and he wandered away.
The next day, I mixed 80 pounds of concrete in my wheelbarrow and started ringing the pit with stones. Albert came back.
Albert: I wanna be invited to your first barbeque.
Me: It’s not that kind of fire pit. It’s just going to be to sit around.
Albert: Oh. You jus gon sit around it?
Me: Mm-hm.
Albert: Jus to sit around.
Me: Yep.
Albert: Fire pit.
Me: Fire pit.
Albert: I have confidence in you.
Me: Thanks.
My knight-in-law came back with a couple of his trusty squires. One of them spent a lot of time trying to break the rocks by throwing them onto the other rocks and losing Lego pieces in my yard; the other was quite helpful with sorting the rocks by size and shape.
I kept laying in the rocks. When I got to the top of the hole, my aching back and low blood sugar won over and I was like, screw the wall, I’m done. The knight-in-law took off the top layer of grass and soil, and
Third day, I mixed up another bag of concrete, cemented in the lip, and covered it with sand. Hello again, Albert.
Albert: You done a hellified job.
Me: Thanks.
Albert: How you gon cook the meat?
Me: …Not planning to cook on it. Just going to make a fire.
Albert: In your fire pit.
Me: In my fire pit.
And guess what! That night,
Some of the stones around the top are loose because people stepped on them and I probably didn’t use enough concrete and WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? I’M NOT A MASON. And anthropologists in the future will almost certainly look at it and say, “Based on the engineering, we estimate this malaria bowl was made by Homo ergasters.”
But it’s mine. It’s my fire pit. I built it. I done a hellified job.
Also, “hellified”: favorite new word. Thanks, Albert.