To Build a Fire

My sister has informed me that I need to blog.

I aim to please.

It's gratifying to know that she actually wants to hear from me, because I still haven't quite gotten over the time she told me to stop walking through the living room with my hot dog-shaped pillow while her friends were over.

I did send her a text message earlier this summer that supposedly made her laugh so hard she choked on a carrot. That's one achievement the memory of which I will treasure forever.

This week marked the beginning of all the local schools. This means that my poor children have to occupy themselves, rather than relying on he neighborhood children.

Today's project? To build a fire. Peter learned how to start a fire by rubbing sticks together at church camp this year, and he wanted to recreate this bit of wilderness-survival magic for his siblings. He also wanted to see flames in the driveway, but I'm trying to focus on the educational, sharing aspect of it all.

Peter has big dreams of taking Les Stroud's spot on Survivorman someday. But I'm suspicious of his ability of living in the wilderness on nothing but bugs and worms if he won't even eat carrots.

My neighbor thinks that I'm a shockingly lenient parent, so I'm sure the sight of my children trying to start a fire in the driveway just confirmed her suspicions. I'm really not worried, though, because most of my favorite memories of fun times with my cousins involve setting fires in driveways, and we're all productive members of society.

Anyway, despite some promising smoke, the fire never appeared. Camellia wanted to solve the problem by using matches, but I nixed that. Starting a fire by rubbing sticks together is educational. Using matches is delinquency.

But then it started to thunder, so I made them come in.

Because starting a fire in the driveway is one thing, but being outside in a thunderstorm is dangerous.