Pyromania

Fire has always intrigued me. Maybe it's because I come from a long line of pyromaniacs. Ooor maybe it's just the way it feels on a cold winter night with a bunch of friends, rosy cheeked and breathless from the night's adventures. As C.S. Lewis said:  "Is any pleasure on earth as great as a circle of Christian friends by a good fire?" The way the flames dance, chasing after sparks accompanying smoke curling up into the night sky is a sure recipe for magic when accompanied with the right people. When bright stars are added to that mixture...it's magic, every time.

I remember when I was little and my dad was teaching me how to build a fire. There's a certain art to it, something a lot more than just matches and wood. I would watch awe-struck as my dad expertly crumpled newspaper, placed kindling around it and struck his match. Within a few minutes a fire would be roaring.

Then it would be my turn. I'd lay on the newspaper and dump in the kindling. Lighting a match, I'd tentatively set it to the newspaper hoping it would ignite. Clumsy flames would leap out and tiny wisps of smoke would curl up and then fade away. I'd crumple more newspaper, lay on more kindling, light another match. Fruitless. Er, flameless.

At that point my dad would reach in and fix my fire. He'd crumple the paper more and place the kindling on top so air could come in. I'd light the match then and fan the flames a bit too hard. Lighting another match, I'd put it again to the paper and again watch the flames lick away. As soon as I was satisfied that the fire took, bigger chunks of wood would find their way onto the fire, sending sparks flying. More smoke would curl up, making it hard to breathe and causing tears to spring up. My dad would reach in and take out the wood, gently admonishing, "Not yet."

We'd start over. Carefully, this time.