When the cold finally broke, we would collect some money, drive over to a deli the east side and pick up a half keg of Pabst blue ribbon for $16.95. It was a rite of spring. Once back on campus, we would drop the keg off along the shore loop with one of the muscle heads who lived on our floor so that HE could hump it down the bank to the shoreline to set it in the cold lake (if it was calm). By the time everybody got down there, there would be a big, smoky driftwood fire roaring and the rot-gut beer would be flowing from the tap.
The waves that pounded the shore all winter soaked the stones that laid below the high water mark. The warm days in April slipped into cold nights and the air was chilled further by the 38 degree water a few feet away. We drank next to a great lake that was only few degrees away from being a giant ice cube.
We always huddled in close to the fire and let the smoke chase us around in circles. Once the fire got hot, water inside the lake stones would turn into steam and invariably, a rock (and the fire) would explode into a shower of embers. It would happen over and over all night long.
This is what I learned from college long after I left:
If I move into the warmth of a fire on a chilly night, I can’t stay away from it for very long before I get very cold. To know that it might explode again isn't going to matter. Being cold is worse. If I ever die from an exploding rock, I'll be dead and that will be that. Building all of my fires in the safe place above the high water mark is safe but, I don't wanna live there.
I want my lake and my warm fire too.
"Do you smell hair burning?"
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