You ever have one of those weeks where nothing seems to go your way? I just had one. It felt as though I was completely out of sync with the world, that is the only way I can describe it. Last night I could not make things go right if I were Jesus and had Superman on the payroll just in case.
Enough of that, this is the week"end", so to quote my Grandmother, "Pooh, pooh, that one." Instead, let's run to the past, perhaps I can find some solace in the antics of my youth.
Do you remember your first cognitive experience with fire? I think most of us associate it to the Christmas's of our youth. No gas fireplaces back then. I loved the art of building a fire back then. My winter afternoons would be comprised of fetching logs from the wood pile with my dog Sabre. For a 4 year old, this was like one of the chores of Hercules. I would harness my sleigh to Sabre and load one log at a time, even though they were already split, then trounce our way back to the house, throwing in a snow angel or two along the way. It would take about 2 hours to collect about 6 logs. Efficiency was never my strong point.
Everyone builds a fire a different way. My father was the slob of fire making. The logs would be thrown haphazardly onto the grate, newspaper just mashed underneath. The only methodical process he had was warming the flue, rolling a page of newspaper into a torch and holding it up into the chimney as if he were Prometheus offering fire to the mortals. Once he did that he would let me light the paper below. I would watch as the flame searched through the folds of the paper, almost in a panic, seeking the air that brought it life. I would see the words and pictures as they ceased to exist before my wide eyes. The small flecks of orange would break off and charge up the flue like some worker bee clearing the path of the blaze that was to come. And then it would start, the first crackle, the following snap. The fire was alive.
The sound of the fire was like the Devil's Symphony, you could hear a well made fire at the front door, and the aroma would fill the house like the Christmas turkey that would soon be in the oven. But more importantly, the fire was a visual feast. The flames being like snowflakes, with none of them being the same, the smoke dancing with music. I could watch the neon embers roll and pitch for hours, and many nights I would fall asleep trying to catch the last ember breathing it's final breath. I never saw it.
When I was about 7, there was a forest fire behind our house one night. I stood in awe of it's power. Even though I was 100 yards away, I could feel it breathe. I saw trees I had played in for years taking part in the destruction, the embers fell like rain from the sky. My father, as if channeling my inefficiency teamed up with Mr. Russell next door and tried to tackle the fire first with a kitchen fire extinguisher, and then a garden hose. I think they managed to drown a few Trillium's, but that was about it. I remember my father being quite upset at the firemen laughing at him upon their arrival. The fire took out about 10 acres. I walked through what now looked like Sleepy Hollow a few days later, the remains sending chills up my spine as they crunched below my feet.
As a boy ages, fire takes on a different form. Now for any of you young parents out there pay attention. Don't play with fire = play with fire. A very simple, yet dangerous formula. It started easily enough. When Trev and I were about 11, we started our destructive way. It started with smash up derby's in the back yard. A friend of mines father worked for General Motors, and he always gave me models of the new cars for the year. I had dozens of them. Of course they would be worth a fortune now, but no, all destroyed. It doesn't take long to get bored of smashing cars, so gasoline was soon introduced to the equation. Too much TV is a bad thing. We went through most of the cars within a matter of weeks, when we were running low Trev annexed his little brothers toys, this of course would be part of our downfall.
Tyler came into the backyard screaming when he found Trev burning his favorite tractor. Now Trev was never the brightest one, and he was pouring gas straight from the Jerry can onto the fire. As Tyler was yelling that he was telling mom and dad, Trev stopped paying attention for a moment to issue his own threats. The fire leaped up its liquid path into the Jerry can. I think I had enough time to squeak out a "zoinks!!" before I started making a run for it. Trev for what ever reason could not let go of the can, and started running after me. I went through the side gate and ran out into the middle of the cul-de-sac. I was yelling at him to drop it, instead through some stroke of genius (not) he threw it. The can split open and filled the street, the street was on fire. Perfect. This is the exact time (of course) that Trev's mother pulls onto the street.
She managed to say "What the hell is going on?"
For whatever stupid reason I said "The street is on fire Mrs. Bowman." I quickly received my "Johnny go home!!" direction, and started wandering down the alley to the sound of approaching fire trucks in the background, it helped keep my mind off of the punishment I was obviously going to receive.
Next up came grade six science. We had this whacked out teacher that just seemed to have something against our families (she did live on the street where the fire was, coincidence? I don't know), her name was Mrs. Kuskie. An American whose husband was no doubt a draft dodger (still have to get my shots in after all these years.) She was from Alabama, and had the weirdest accent. She called the entire class by their first name, except Trev and I. We were Mr. Boooman, and Mr. harrrrtwick. All the children would pile into the class in the morning and get their greeting, followed by "Mr. Boooman, Mr. Harrrrwick, sit down!!!"
Anyhow, this was the year that we got to make our own model rockets that would then be fired off once completed. You may think you know where this is going, but I guarantee you don't. It was a two month project that we had to mix between school and home. Our parents were supposed to help us, but you knew that wasn't going to happen. Now I must say, Trev built a pretty spanky rocket, mine was nice but his kicked. I was pretty big into models at the time, and I was quite talented at painting them if I do say so myself. So Trev wanted some painting tips. Now I do tend to be a little mischievous, and Trev and I were very competitive. So I gave him the best paint I had. Unfortunately it was a type of lacquer, a very flammable type of lacquer. When it was done it was one beautiful rocket though, one for the ages.
It came time to launch our rockets. They had to change venues from the years previous, it seems one of the former students had issues launching her rocket and 20 acres of Fish Creek Regional Park had burned. Yes, it was my sister, and I'm certain Mrs. Kuskie was already suspect. So we had moved to a large open field in the south-west of Calgary. The grass was green and lush, unlike Fish Creek, and the only thing around was a condo project being built across the street. We were in the middle of the launch list. Trev was all giddy about his rocket beauty, and the heights he thought it would reach. They launched two rockets at a time, whatever Mrs. Kuskie "perceived" as the highest reach won. They were launched from a sawhorse that had a u-shaped wire that was flush against the top of the sawhorse with the two rods sticking out at either end. You would loosen off the wing nut, lower the rods, and slide your rockets guides through the rods. Then push the rods straight up and tighten the wing nut to hold the rod in place.
Finally, it was our turn. Trev was on the side with the wing nut, and I on the other. You couldn't wipe the smile off his face as he slid the rocket down the rod. We gave each other a thumbs up as we walked back to the sawhorse pushing up the rods. Trev tightened the wing nut. At this point I went and put my hand on his shoulder and told him what a great rocket he had, meanwhile my other hand loosened the wing nut. I made my way back to my side and Mrs. Kuskie gave both of us our ignitors. She counted down from 10. At 1, I nudged the sawhorse with my foot, the rods with the weight of the rockets on them started falling, Trev was already past the point of no return due to his giddiness, I of course was beyond committed, hell, I should have been committed.
The rockets took off like sidewinder missiles, horizontally of course. Trev's was already a fireball (thanks to my "special" paint). I suddenly realized a fault in my antics. The rockets were aimed at the condo project. It was only framing and sheet plywood at the time, and the rockets managed to find their own window openings. You could hear a few construction workers yelling, and then the smoke started to rise. A quarter of the building burned before the firemen got the fire out. The only thing that saved me was Trev's innocence, he was crying about his rocket, Mrs. Kuskie couldn't possibly accuse him, and I was on the other side of the wing nut (the hardware, not Trev) so I was presumed innocent.
They never allowed rockets in grade 6 science again. I told Trev the story about 10 years later, it was actually the first time we were having a beer together as adults, we both had belly laughs for about 20 minutes.
This has gone on a little longer than I planned so I will have to finish it off tomorrow. I will leave you with a little quote by Ayn Rand I've always liked:
"Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the approximate, the not-quite, the not-yet, the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish, in lonely frustration for the life you deserved, but have never been able to reach. Check your road and the nature of your battle. The world you desired can be won, it exists, it is real, it is possible, and it's yours."
To be continued.....
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