Her words were simple, yet foreign in composition. The sentence rattled around in my head without finding a clear landing space. “Sorry,” I finally responded, “what was that?”

The face of the very nice lady behind the register with the thick central Virginia drawl flushed with embarrassment as she stammered, “Oh gosh! I just said, ‘Have a good fire.’”

Still unsure how to respond, I uttered “thanks” and grabbed the bundle of firewood and chicken salad sandwich from the counter.

This grocery store was 30 minutes from home and about two hours from the campground for this last-minute solo trip to what has become a favorite river in Virginia. My late start, coupled with the lack of options between here and there, and compounded by the likelihood I would be rolling in close to dark, meant this bundle would have to suffice for tonight’s attempt at a good fire. As the highway turned west toward the mountains, ruminations on fire quality gave way to streamer-eating browns and solitude.

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