From an early age, my little brother and I were fascinated by fire. Our fascination produced a couple of young pyromaniacs who were only cured after the intervention of a very close call.
Wednesday night was spaghetti night at our house, and Mom would get out these two old wine bottles with candles in them and melted wax all over the bottles. She put them on the kitchen table to set the mood. Now we ain’t Eyetalian by any stretch and were raised to be good Southern Baptist teetotalers, although I gave up on the teatotallin part long about puberty.
Anyways, Mom would let us light the candles, and we would stare at those flames while eating our sgetti. We would pass our fingers through the flames as an act of bravery and even try to toast our bread in the flames until Mom and Dad made us stop. And of course there was the hot wax challenge.
Soon we got our very own magnifying glasses, and we went to burning leaves and such and got ahold of some secret matches. Up at Grandpa’s farm, we would sneak into the woods and build a small fire and then pee on it to put it out just because we could. We had this fire thing down purty good so we thought.
Then one day, we were at Granny’s house, and my brother and I decided to build a fire in her tiny backyard. It was windy, so I had the bright idea to take our project back behind the old outhouse in the back corner of the yard. No wind there, and our fire was up and growing in no time, and growing and growing! I ran and got a bucket of water and threw it on the fire, but it just knocked the fire into the very large stand of bamboo on the other side of the chain link fence. As flames shot toward the sky, I realized the garage housing my uncle’s tools and 1939 Ford Phaeton were in jeopardy. Panic set in, and I told my brother to go get more water, and I would run around to the other side to see how bad the fire was. (This did not make a lick of sense.) I also told my brother not to tell Mom.
I ran and ran to see flames shooting 20 feet into the air and devouring the bamboo on its path to the garage and certain catastrophe. Meanwhile, my little brother was in shock and wandered into the house. He had soot on his face, and all he could mumble to Mom was, “Smoke, fire, flames, smoke...”
About that time, some men next door turned some hoses on the flames, and the conflagration was extinguished in short order. The whole thing was so traumatic that somehow my brother and I didn’t even get whippings. We counted that as a big win and were never again reckless with fire.
Wednesday night was spaghetti night at our house, and Mom would get out these two old wine bottles with candles in them and melted wax all over the bottles. She put them on the kitchen table to set the mood. Now we ain’t Eyetalian by any stretch and were raised to be good Southern Baptist teetotalers, although I gave up on the teatotallin part long about puberty.
Anyways, Mom would let us light the candles, and we would stare at those flames while eating our sgetti. We would pass our fingers through the flames as an act of bravery and even try to toast our bread in the flames until Mom and Dad made us stop. And of course there was the hot wax challenge.
Soon we got our very own magnifying glasses, and we went to burning leaves and such and got ahold of some secret matches. Up at Grandpa’s farm, we would sneak into the woods and build a small fire and then pee on it to put it out just because we could. We had this fire thing down purty good so we thought.
Then one day, we were at Granny’s house, and my brother and I decided to build a fire in her tiny backyard. It was windy, so I had the bright idea to take our project back behind the old outhouse in the back corner of the yard. No wind there, and our fire was up and growing in no time, and growing and growing! I ran and got a bucket of water and threw it on the fire, but it just knocked the fire into the very large stand of bamboo on the other side of the chain link fence. As flames shot toward the sky, I realized the garage housing my uncle’s tools and 1939 Ford Phaeton were in jeopardy. Panic set in, and I told my brother to go get more water, and I would run around to the other side to see how bad the fire was. (This did not make a lick of sense.) I also told my brother not to tell Mom.
I ran and ran to see flames shooting 20 feet into the air and devouring the bamboo on its path to the garage and certain catastrophe. Meanwhile, my little brother was in shock and wandered into the house. He had soot on his face, and all he could mumble to Mom was, “Smoke, fire, flames, smoke...”
About that time, some men next door turned some hoses on the flames, and the conflagration was extinguished in short order. The whole thing was so traumatic that somehow my brother and I didn’t even get whippings. We counted that as a big win and were never again reckless with fire.
