Roasting Marshmallows

“Let’s make a campfire,” my Uncle Randall suggested. “We can roast marshmallows.”  

My sons cheered this idea as they raced around my grandmother’s sloping lawn. The West Virginia night sparkled with fireflies.  

“Come back here!” I yelled. My oldest was leading his little brother down the rocky, wooded slope ending at the river. “I don’t have time to go to the emergency room.” 

My brother split his head tumbling down that same slope when we were children. My oldest often led his little brother into danger, displaying a canny ability to avoid injury. His little brother lacked that ability. 

My Uncle Randall grew pot in his basement, once throwing open his vest at a family reunion. Marijuana cigarettes lined up inside, like soldiers at attention. No one invited him back. 

A U.S. Naval Academy graduate, Randall was an accountant in the insurance business, flitting from job to job. He drove from upstate New York to spend an evening with me and the boys as we visited relatives.  

A canvas tent housed Randall’s overnight essentials. He insisted it was his idea to sleep outdoors, but I knew his jug wine and pot were not welcome in my grandmother’s house. 

“You sure you don’t want some?” Randall held out the jug. I shook my head. I suspected the jug didn’t actually hold wine. Moonshine was always available if you knew who to ask. 

Grandma brought out marshmallows as Randall and the boys prepared sticks. The boys yelped and flung oozing marshmallow pieces at each other. 

Randall leaned back on a rock, his legs stretched toward the fire. The boys nudged each other and pointed. Randall’s shorts rode up as he closed his eyes. The shorts, it turned out, were a little too short. My uncle neglected to wear underwear. 

The boys giggled as Randall dozed. I gathered them and herded them into the house. Nudging my uncle, I moved the jug away from the fire. 

“Randall,” I said as he opened one eye. “You’re about to roast something other than marshmallows.”