So, I says to Brent, I says, "I need a place to have a fire at night."
"Okey-doke. Let's go to the rust pile." This, I'm learning, is where all magical things are found.
He pulls out an old steel garbage drum, fires up the blow torch and cuts off the bottom third.
Then, he puts in a few side holes for aeration:
And just like that, a new fire pit!
Of course, we had to break it in right away and get us some firewood. So Brent's grandson, Levi (age 12), drove us to "the bush", an area of our land that is pretty wild, with the Pembina River running through it. In rural areas, most kids start driving on the farm pretty young. Mama Iva tells me stories about her driving the truck at age 10, barely old enough to see over the dash, so she could help the men in the fields.
Brent brought a chainsaw, Levi, an axe, and I just picked up whatever was on the ground. Then, we emptied out all the firewood that was stored in the basement of the old house - Brent passed it to us through an open hole and we loaded in to the back of the truck so it could dry out. I'm also keeping additional firewood in the old kitchen behind my camper - the house may be unlivable but it's handy for storage.
Levi, in action. And yes, behind him is yet another cool pick-up truck (circa '71) that lives here in the yard.
Just in time for company!
And later, a fire all to myself....