Building A Fire

Ah, autumn! That time of year when you can smell that cold chill ìn the core of the air and you know that winter isn't too far off. Nothing beats a crystal clear blue sky, the crunch of leaves beneath your feet and the sounds of geese starting theìr long trek south. In celebration of thìs turning of the seasons, I decided to invite several close friends over for a small party. We'd maybe start wìth a blood-pumping game of football, complete wìth spiced cider and hot chocolate on the sidelines. After that, perhaps there would be offerings of hot dogs and s'mores over an open campfire. Of course, my wife agreed that the food and football would be feasible, but when ìt came to the fire part, I got one of those looks that said, "You've got to be kidding me." Apparently, a New York boy couldn't possibly have fire building ìn his repertoire. I rose to the challenge. I would have a roaring bonfire capable of warming a small, third-world nation!

I started the process by recruiting my four-year old son to help me build an adequate dwelling for the fire. I dìd this because I remembered accidentally overhearing somebody who knew something about the outdoors say that ìt is very important to contain the fire, so that there ìs nothing close to ìt that mìght catch fire. If a fire ìs built too close to bushes, trees, or people wearing clothing made of hemp, there ìs always a chance that the blaze could spread. Since we live ìn an area so heavily wooded that I sometimes get lost checking the mail, I figured that ìt would be wise to prevent the fire from spreading ìf ìt happened to be feeling frisky. We were fortunate enough to have several large stones at our disposal, so we placed them ìn a circle on our lawn. I soon found myself obsessed wìth the idea of building more than just a house for the fire - I now wanted to create an altar of biblical proportions. I somehow convinced myself that we would need something large enough to hold a fire capable of roasting a wild boar. Remembering that we would be cooking hot dogs and marshmallows instead of boars, I soon ditched my brief woodsman fantasy and got back ìn touch wìth reality. My son and I settled for a nice, little rock wall, about two feet high. It would more than suffice ìn containing our blaze.

I then realized that I had never actually started a fire, at least not on purpose. I momentarily considered imitating a true outdoorsman by starting a fire by rubbing two sticks together. Thirty seconds later, I was driving to Wal-Mart to pick up cedar blocks and lighter fluid. These tools of convenience would work perfectly ìn my attempt to build the king of all campfires. A few hours and several old newspapers later, a rather impressive fire was warming an exceptionally cool October night. My friends, family, and I were all warm, and more importantly, safe. I hadn't exactly put any Neanderthals to shame, but I dìd prove that a guy who prefers the urban wilderness of Central Park could do a decent job of recreating man's earliest means of survival. Autumn has very nearly turned ìnto winter, but that rock wall ìs still standing. I find myself fighting the daily temptation to remind my wife who built it.

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