|You see a fire pit . . . we see a target|
We have a fire pit.
The gathering place for our family for every day of the summer.
When the weather allows.
It is the scene of wiener and marshmallow roasts and long, long talks into the evening, watching the flames and embers glow.
Where parking toes within comfortable toasting distance and children running dangerously close (to the dismay of their parents) are the norm.
Oh, and because it’s the Tolleys, the fire pit is also the scene of . . . pittings.
Let me explain . . .
Our favorite summer food is cherries.
Cherries have pits.
So – pittings.
See it now?
Over the years, my husband has been able to hit that fire pit with better and better accuracy.
He taught his children.
It was fun.
Until they grew up, got married and discovered . . . manners. Or rather, discovered that their spouses had . . . manners.
Thus, the pittings ended.
For a while.
But in recent years, he has discovered a whole, new group of neophytes.
Small people who are ready and willing to embark on any adventure he introduces.
To the dismay of their parents.
Imagine this: A line of children, of various sizes, cherry juice dripping down their chins, spitting enthusiastically towards the fire.
Sound like fun?
Their parents don’t think so, either.
But Grampa and Gramma do.
And it’s our pit.