Eric and the firewood

You can't find a more stand-up guy than my buddy Eric. Reliable, honorable, loyal and skilled in the manly arts of fixing things. Eric is all that and much, much more. In fact, some aspects of Eric, like his demonic sense of humor, might eclipse his prowess with power tools.

Since I met Eric, the German, he has been partnered with Elena, the Sicilian. To understand them, imagine a super collider into which you've put hyper-practicality with a dash of world domination, then added passion, hospitality and magnificent cooking. Fire up the collider and mash these elements together so that they are indistinguishably fused and, voila, Eric and Elena.

It should be said, however, that it hasn't always been smooth sailing with Eric and Elena. In fact, there have been fleeting moments of sheer terror in our friendship.

Some years ago, Satan—my wife at the time—and I were neighbors with Eric and Elena. Satan and I had recently become home owners and we basked in our new, ample space. So unlike our previous, charming but cramped, digs near Loring Park. Among our new indulgences was space for a backyard fire pit and wood pile. Neighbors, Eric and Elena, enjoyed this space with us many times, just as we enjoyed visiting their lovely old brownstone apartment, only a few blocks away.

It was at the brownstone that we shared Christmas years ago. Elena, in her fashion, prepared a magnificent feast and had her home beautifully decorated. Eric, in his manly manner, laid a fire in his fireplace and made arrangements with me for additional firewood. He walked the short distance from his home to mine and I met him on my back porch to help with the wood.

Since the first iteration of my backyard fire area, I'd built a lovely woodbox with a lid. Even though we'd gotten a great deal of snow during this Christmas season, our evening's firewood would be clean and dry. I quickly shoveled a path to the woodbox on the side of the house, then, Eric and I began scooping snow off the woodbox lid with our gloved hands. Once the loose snow was removed, I lifted the hinged lid and noted how much heavier it was than it had been in the fall. Hmmm, a coating of ice apparently weighs a lot. I propped the lid open and made way for Eric as he stuck his upper body into the woodbox and began filling the tote he had with him.

In an instant, and with a sickening thud, the firebox lid came down on Eric's head. I screamed like a little girl. Eric took the shock and pain in full manly manner, only a brief grunt came out of him. He did, however, furiously rub his head like you do when you take a hit. And what a hit! It was horrifying, like a Louisville slugger aimed for the fence.

I think Eric rubbed snow on the spot were he was hit; it's like him to have had the presence of mind to do so. This much is certain, in the short time

Eric and I stood around the wood box while he recovered, a lump like an Easter egg formed on his noggin. I was worried and felt responsible. I should have held the lid. Eric could see this and I remember him assuaging my worry more than I expressed concern for his battered head.

Eventually, Eric set out for his home with the firewood and his Easter egg. I went into the house to connect with Satan, telling her it was time to head to the neighbors for the evening. Perhaps ten minutes after Eric had departed, Satan and I were on our way.

The night was gorgeous. Big, fat snowflakes were falling. Snow clung to the old oak and ash trees in our neighborhood. The smell of woodsmoke from fireplaces was in the air. Through the frosted windows of the homes we passed, lit Christmas trees glowed. All was good in the world until Satan and I turned the corner at 45th Street and Colfax Avenue South. From there we could see that something was very wrong.

On the stoop of the brownstone laid Eric's tote; tipped over and spilling sticks of firewood. The door to the brownstone was ajar and light streamed out from the foyer to the stoop. Satan and I dashed up the sidewalk to the stoop and from there we could see Eric's legs. He was lying just inside the foyer amongst more spilled firewood. His legs were on the foyer floor and his torso rested on the steps to his second-story apartment. Horror of horrors, his face, turned to one side, was visible and a great deal of froth was coming out of his mouth.

Satan and I freaked out. I rushed to Eric saying something, I'm guessing, really helpful like, "Duuuude, are you OK?" Ray Charles could have seen that Eric was nowhere near OK. Satan, for all her satanic ways, had it together enough to call 911. It was when Satan started talking to the cops that Elena's voice boomed forth from the second story landing, just out of view from the foyer, "Eric, that's enough. Peter, it's OK. Satan, tell the cops it was a mistake."

The skinny is this: Eric came home with the firewood. He knew his buddy was worried about the severity of the woodbox injury. He, in record time, concocted a mixture of baking soda and lime juice to produce a theatrical froth. Then, he staged a horror scene in his foyer and on his stoop. Merry fucking Christmas Peter, love Eric.

Ultimately, this story is a joyous one. When we all caught our breath and stopped laughing over Eric's stunt, we went on to have a truly magical evening. Later, when voices and laughter from Elena and Satan could be heard from the kitchen, Eric and I stood in the living room of his corner apartment. Together, we looked out the windows. Fat snowflakes were still falling and an old-timey street lamp lit the intersection like a Currier and Ives print. It may have been said between us, it may have been just a nod, it may have been a clink of our cocktail glasses, I can't remember, but Eric and I knew at that moment how wealthy we were. And the hard-earned firewood crackled in the fireplace.