Collecting marshmallow sticks for the evening's fire.
Sunset fades into twilight.
The last of the light catches in the clouds as the full moon hangs above the Indian Peaks.
The quintessentially American ritual of making s'mores. This was not a part of my childhood. Neither of my parents was born into a native family. Though I have never really developed a taste for s'mores, I now understand the ritual and its pleasures.
What I most definitely can appreciate is the art of roasting a perfect marshmallow over a fragrant mesquite fire as the last of the lavender light leaches from the Colorado sky...
Here is cousin Harrison teaching Q how it's done.
With a second cousin, Abbie, from another branch of the family.
Uncle Sean and cousin Holland walking into the sunset, and my husband's mother at the campfire.
Cousins yet farther removed, enjoying the warmth of the fire. As you can see, my husband's family - largely Norwegian and Irish - is dominantly blond, while mine is mostly dark. All that wanton blondness is still fascinating to me, having come from Mediterranean stock. My mother was blond in her youth, with ice-blue eyes, and her Dutch father a redhead. But the bulk of us in my family have been dark of both hair and eye.
Crackling firewood culled from the high mountain valley.
My husband reading the girls to sleep after a long evening of Woodsmoke and song.
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