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As we approach the winter solstice in the Southern Hemisphere, I begin to look forward to the days getting lighter, minute by minute. My favourite seasons in Tasmania are the shoulder seasons; autumn, spring.
The blades of grass are long where we live. They're those thick pieces of grass a cow probably spends a lifetime dreaming of. Grass like this frosts beautifully, and we had our first frosts last week. I have a gravel path to my workshop now, which I lay with 28 wheelbarrows of bluestone rock—but, on days like these, I like to diverge from the path and crunch in grass. I mostly grew up in country which frosts—except for a few years in the USA and Germany where it snowed. Seasons are important to me, as is changeable weather—I remember during a six week layover in Hawaii, thinking how annoying the consistency of the days were: 27 degrees and blue skies—day in, day out. Tasmania is windswept by the roaring forties, low pressure systems whipping up from the Antarctic—every day is a surprise.
In many ways I had an idyllic childhood. Tree climbing, rocket building, books, cubbies, deadly rope swings, dirt bikes and an unfenced school (both physically and metaphorically). Each solstice, we had a mid-year bonfire. Throughout May and June, the pile of wood slowly grew in the schoolyard. In my memory it was two stories high—in reality, perhaps it was less, or not. A child has the most terrible sense of time: A day, an hour, a week—they are meaningless descriptions for events present, past or future. The only indicator for the progression of time toward the solstice, was the height of the bonfire pile.
In retrospect, it was a remarkably pagan picture: An enormous fire licking what seemed like the stratosphere, kids running around in circles being complete lunatics while wielding enormous fire sticks. As the night grew on, eventually some older kid would realise they could lob their fire stick over the top of the fire for ultimate pyrotechnic effect: Given the darkness, who was to be reprimanded? Some other kid would soon copy, and before you knew it, things were completely out of control in a hail of arm propelled stick meteors.
These fire sticks were no ordinary fire sticks though. I do not mean a tree branch with the end lit meekly on fire—I mean an intentionally constructed kerosene and beeswax fire stick—a recipe likely passed on from Erik the Red. Who in their right mind would equip 25 kids with kerosene fire sticks on a night like this?
She was 78 years old and her name was Burgl. She only spoke Austrian German and played a mean game of Yahtzee, baked the worlds greatest Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte and lived to 103.
As time marched toward the winter solstice, the the bonfire pile grew and Burgl began her fire stick making—she called these fire sticks Fackel. On the back porch of her small weatherboard house, lay a pot of hot wax and a pile of neatly cut arrow-straight sticks. Beside all this, lay a pot of kerosene and a stack of old newspaper. Now, my memory is about as reliable as a Trabant, so perhaps don't try this at home, but, I vaguely recall the recipe as follows:
Dip stick in wax. Cool. Wrap in newspaper. Dip in kerosene. Dip in wax. Cool. Wrap in newspaper. Dip in Kerosene. Repeat.
Give to small child at bonfire night.
As the fire sticks were lobbed en masse across the dancing flames of the bonfire, screams of delight echoed across the fields—equal with the screams of each parent, yelling hopelessly into the darkness. The solstice was being properly ushered in by a symphony of screaming madness across the entire octave range of age. Synthetic jumpers singed from the whirling sparks, dogs ran for the hills, a muddy patch of dirt lay covered in still burning fire sticks: Burgl really knew how to make a fire stick—you could probably submerge them in a barrel of water and they wouldn't go out.
I loved it and so did every other 10 year old.
Darkness came at 5.19pm and light on the horizon would not appear again until 6.45am. The nights were long and we went to be early and woke up late. My parents probably loved winters, there were a couple of extra hours of potential peace in the evenings as we slept. The nordic countries would laugh at the length of our winter days, their sun barely hovers above the horizon before beginning its downward descent. But these were our winters, and after the bonfire, those days would begin to get longer and longer, until they reached the opposing summer solstice in late December.
The world seems to be changing every six months these days. I'm grateful the solstice does not change. I cannot ascertain whether this constant feeling of global change is a very ordinary symptom of ageing, or whether we really are at an acceleration point. Through this ageing process, I find myself more regularly questioning whether the things that annoy me are genuine concerns or whether it's just me—getting old. I then start to ask myself more and more about whether the past really was better. I ponder whether the 1990's was perhaps the peak decade of my life, lusting after a 90's era VL Walkinshaw and reminiscing about Furby's, Fanta, Encarta 95 and slap bands.
I left school at 16, because I thought the Internet was the most extraordinary thing in the world and I wanted to be part of it (a love that dwindled as the Internet commercialised and became an algorithmic walled garden designed purely for generating ad clicks…). So, off I went to work on the World Wide Web in the pre-dot-com era. I hated school because I really just wanted to spend my days in the library, self-learning, reading, or at a computer creating things. I believed the state of schooling was a waste of time then, and I still do. But inconsistently, I send my own kid to school and disappoint myself.
I remember I had a teacher from that unnamed school without fences, who suggested that the best education would simply be a library and playground. A bunch of teachers would then assist kids in their self-learning and self-direction. That was it. I loved the idea and I will never forget that teacher. He was as mad as a cut snake, but he always had an unusual and unforgettable way of teaching. I recall one morning, he wanted to show us how lungs worked—he turned up with a butchered sheep lung and blew directly down the windpipe to inflate the lifeless organ, blood dripping on the floor—we watched in awe as it expanded and contracted. Frankly, it was fucking insane. During another memorable teaching moment, we made pyrotechnics from their core ingredients, produced wholly from scratch—these ingredients were then stuffed into paper tubes and lit on fire, sparks of molten hot sulphur catching those synthetic jumpers on fire again.
I spoke to my oldest friend, Ben, the other day. Burgl was his grandma. I asked him what Burgl’s secret to a long life was, pondering whether such a long life might also lead to a lot of nostalgia (and a lot of winter solstice bonfires). I wondered whether nostalgia was a trap during the transition to maturity. Maybe when you're old and wise enough, you're simply much better at just accepting the moment as it is—or maybe, you just don't have a great memory anymore and you can't remember the good times? I don't know, but I hope I get old enough to figure it out.
So, how can you experience as many winter bonfires as Burgl? The secret is simple, like all good things: Coffee, cake and an afternoon nap. A daily walk, small creative projects and a life with as little stress as possible.
(And giving Fackel to small children).
Other ways to support
Take a look at the outdoor equipment I hand make at Kohutt - I literally make each piece myself in an industrial sewing workshop built from two shipping containers, located in the wilds of Tasmania.
If you happen to be planning a trip to Tasmania, come stay at our Airbnb, located in Eaglehawk Neck! You can enjoy a wood fired sauna, the skate ramp, surfing, wood fires, my epic book collection and look up in awe at all the tall eucalypts you are surrounded by.
Buy me a coffee - it’s an addiction I’ve had for 25 years and I’m not going to stop.
Purchase a copy of my book - either signed or as a Kindle book. (Purchasing a book directly from me avoids lining the pockets of Amazon billionaires - just say’in!)
Elsewhere
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