One afternoon, I carried the playpen to the yard, and hoisted the toddler into it. From there, he could watch his almost 4-year-old brother and me gather limestone and build a fire ring. He could see far across the valley to the hills south and west. The air was brisk, but not cold, and fragrant with juniper.

Big brother worked hard, hunting down and carrying a lot of rocks. We made an initial circle of the larger stones, flat and pocked by weathering. Gradually, we added more rocks of varied shapes, neither of us experienced, but able to grasp the concept that we didn’t want them to tumble down at the first go.

Little brother protested his restricted territory, but soon gave up and watched, entertained by the antics of mom and brother as we passed by, feigning that the stones were heavier than they were, or doing dances, or running up and patting him on the head. He couldn’t wander unattended because it was a hard slope with small rocks and fire ants and other hazards for one so small.

It wasn’t a sunny afternoon, but one of those late-winter days where the sun behind high clouds illuminates sky into mother-of-pearl.

The fire ring has been used many, many times, for equinoxes and solstices and odd occasions. It still stands at the little house in Big Country.