At the first hint of fall, my mother would proclaim – predictably, as if on cue, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement – “I’m going to kindle a little fire.”

This, despite temperatures still in the high 60s; this, despite the fact every window in the house remained open. In the southland, the first inkling of fall was barely a hint; it was merely a reading on the calendar, not on the thermometer.

But mama, who was prone to quoting the Bible, would remind us: “How great a matter a little fire kindleth.” She said that was from the Book of James, and although we kids didn’t understand how Scripture exactly applied to the situation, if a fire was a “great matter” to her, it was to us as well.

So, we’d gather some dry pine cones, wad up yesterday’s newspaper and pile a few small logs on the andirons in the fireplace. Then, we’d sit quietly, watching the flames … and mama’s contagious smile.

Daughters undoubtedly become their mothers, in one way or the other, sooner or later. The resemblance may show in the gardens they fashion or meals they prepare. Or in the lines on their face, the ring of their laughter, or in their simple enjoyment of staring at a fire.

Fall is late this year in Down East Maine, where warm, sunny days brighten the goldenrod and wild asters along the roadsides and deepen the reds of maples and of apples. No frost is on the pumpkins, and nighttime temperatures are far from chilly.

Yet, I have kindled a little fire on several occasions – because of the calendar, not the nip in the air – and have spent far too much time on these moonlit evenings sitting motionless and gazing at the blaze, my silent thoughts darting through my mind like flames from the logs. I hear no other household sounds except the cracking and popping of cedar shavings as I remain transfixed.

Contemplating what, who knows? Perhaps H.M. Tomlinson knew when he wrote: “The sea is at its best at London, near midnight, when you are within the arms of a capacious chair, before a glowing fire, selecting phases of the voyages you will never make.”

My sea is beyond the front windows; it is at its best when reflecting the moonlight on a still night, its calm – its sheen – more like a lake than an ocean. I can identify with Tomlinson’s words, and I would bet so did mama.

Like her, I sit at a glowing fire, recalling the voyages I have made. And, because, like her, I’m sometimes tempted toward melancholy, I ponder the voyages I may never make.