It was a summer day at Hanover lake in 1959. In those days, things weren’t as organized as they are now days. It was already something that an area of the lake had been dragged and netted off from the rest of the lake so people could go swimming. There weren’t any life guards and no one had opened a kiosk or snack bar. People brought their own food and sometimes lit a fire in the sand to roast hot dogs or whatever.
It was nearly time to go home, and the sun was already pretty low. I’d been running along the tiny beach, as usual bare-footed and not looking where I was going when suddenly a burning sensation under my foot stopped me in my tracks. I began to scream and cry and my mother ran to see what had happened. Seems that a happy picnicker hadn’t removed all the red-hot charcoal from his impromptu barbecue. I’d found the wayward ember. She took me in her arms … though I was 9 years old and almost as tall as she by then … and told me about the Indian fakir who walked on coals.
yogi in bud
walking on hot coals
in New Jersey