I call this series: Fucking Around with my Camera.
A campfire is the great uniter. It
has the power to bring a group of people together to talk over its destruction
and absorb its creation, to draw out the words that would’ve been kept secret,
and to illuminate memories burned into forever. Fire was another staple of
those trips, the greatest and the original.
…
It’s windy. Really windy. And Chris
and I are having a hard time finding a place where the smoke from this fire
allows for seeing and breathing. It’s being a bully, following us around the
schoolyard, making us cry and cutting off our air supply.
And we’re out of ideas. We've removed all the leaves from the flames, spaced the logs apart, and even erected a tarp structure to block the wind.
Nothing’s working. We end up diving under the tarp and wrapping it over us.
It’s not the most comfortable thing. Chris’ face is blue. My face is blue.
Everything we see is blue and the air is thick with plastic. But it beats
hanging out with bully blaze.
It’s nice. Just hanging out with a
friend, under a tarp. Cracking jokes. Shooting the shit.
“Is the fire brighter than normal,”
Chris asks.
“No, man. Seems fine to me.”
We chat on, talking about how much
Jesus rocks! In actuality our conversation probably fell between the hottest
Playboy playmate, which actresses we’d like know biblically, and which letter of the boob alphabet makes for a better pillow (when in doubt, pick C). Basically the stuff Catholic boys shouldn’t be talking about.
“Are you sure the fire's not brighter?”
“Chris, chill. It’s fine.”
But it’s not fine, and a quick
check reveals the fire has hopped out of the pit and is devouring the pile of
leaves at our feet.
“Oh shit. Shit! Shit! Shit!”
We hop into action, knowing full
well the possibilities. As my dad would always say, “The wind's just right”
and it was dry. We trounce every last flame like we’re in a Kid Rock video
while laughing our asses off and when victory is declared, we fall back into
another pile of leaves and laugh some more. The laughing dies down. The wind doesn't.
“Wanna go watch a movie,” I ask.
“Sure.”
We spout laugher at the naked
trees, douse the fire, and head inside.
…
And yes, it bites.
My
father bequeathed to me a great
appreciation and passion for both fire and blowing shit up, which is why I will
blame him for Adam’s singed hair. Boredom may have been a factor, but Professor
Pops taught me everything I know.
And it was he who decided to leave us alone that day.
Dad
had purchased a 40-acre plot of land for hunting a few years prior. It was the
perfect location for a few of our science experiments. We started small, just a
few dry ice bombs dropped into a beaver hut. “For the trees,” we shouted as the
first one shot mud and branches into the sky.
"Holy shit, man." Adam had never seen a dry ice bomb. I flash a knowing smile and prepare the second. The sun is high. The surrounding trees bow in the wind, almost giving thanks for our assault on their main threat. Shortly after number two, however, the nosy
neighbor comes out to put a stop to it all. His dirty looks pushed us into the
forest, where our new tree friends concealed our shenanigans.
There
were three ingredients: cardboard, kindling, and gasoline. And the recipe read
like this: place piece of cardboard down, splash some gasoline, put kindling on top of cardboard, splash some more gasoline, repeat until stack is two feet high.
“Really? Two feet,” Adam asks.
“Yeah,
man. It’s the recipe.”
And
you have to follow the recipe. You should also follow common sense when it
tells you to throw the match.
“HOLY
SHIT!”
“Ouch!
Fuck, I burnt myself!”
“You
alright, dude?”
“Oww,
oww. It burned my hair.”
Sure
enough, he was right. The massive fireball, that stood seven feet and spread
four, had melted a decent patch of Adam’s arm hair.
“Dude!
It burned your bangs too!”
He
grabs at his hair. “Holy shit!”
Now, I’m my dad’s son, and a few
scorched hair follicles never stopped him, so we head back to the cabin.
Another idea dawns and we rustle up some hiking sized sticks, wire coat
hangers, and gasoline-soaked rags. And we fight, but not each other. That’s
just stupid. Darkness is our enemy and even the sky isn’t safe. We take turns tossing the torches into the air and running for cover. We stop when
the torch slips its wire-hanger knot while 15 feet in the air and the sudden
meteor crashes 20 feet away.
Words
aren’t needed because our wide eyes do the yelling. “Holy shit!”
…
If this entry whet your appetite for the rest of "The Boys of Summer" and you're too lazy to scroll to the top for the links... all together now! You're! So! Laaaaaazy!
