Summer was the smell of kerosene and wet canvas. We’d set up the massive barn shaped tent and make marshmallows. You’d have your guitar.
“Grab little sticks, this type of dry moss, bark. We need kindlin’ kiddo,” you made it a game, making the fire. All adventure centred around it.
I’d run into the tiny forest around the campsites, imagining it was a massive wood. I’d come back with more things in my hair than in my hands.
“Build up from small to big, leave room between the pieces for air so it can breathe,” you added bigger and bigger sticks to the teepee of firewood.
Fire was alive, it could breathe.
“Now, create a little kindling bomb to light it. Make a little doorway in the bottom. It needs to be sheltered, insulated a bit to hold the heat,” you’d roll up some moss in paper, wind it tight, and ignite it.
You’d carefully place it inside your tower.
It would begin to burn and smoke, lighting the little spirals of moss. Changing them from brown to bright yellow.
“Dark orange is the colour you want,” you instructed.
Your little Trojan horse of kindling would burn steadily, holding the flames against the larger pieces just long enough.
There’d be a moment of suspense as the fire inhaled, expanding then contracting: would it light?
Pop. Crack. The first sounds of success, something bigger had lit.
By then end of the night, we’d have a certified bonfire several metres in height. Oldies rock played through the ghetto blaster or through crackling car speakers.
You’d tell me about past fires: cliff jumping by waterfalls with your friends; road trips across the country; and pushing cars out of snow banks in the middle of nowhere.
Campfires always went hand in hand with adventures.
We’d lay on the ground and watch the stars. There were always meteor showers. I could never believe how lucky we were!
Now, I realise that you’d planned it that way. You’d wanted to show me the fire in the sky. To know the stars. To look up sometimes to see the bigger picture.
We’d count the shooting stars and wish on them. I learned to dream and trust in the unknown. To feel insignificant but important, like every individual star that makes up the zodiac.
I’m still living the luck from wishing on endless shooting stars.
Burning down the house
“Ha! Your fire is horrible! Why don’t we just let the girl do it,” said some guys in a hostel in Uruguay. They pointed at me mocking each other.
Machistos. Sexist douche-bags.
Tons of smoke and little heat billowed out of the fireplace into the room. The fire was doing a better job of gagging us than warming us.
It was built too far forward to channel the smoke into the chimney. The pieces of wood were too big to do more than smoulder with the kindling. It was a faulty tower.
I put my wine down (you know sh%& was getting real), walked over to the suffering flames and rebuilt it – just as you had taught me. I nurtured the tiny coals, fed them, breathed into them until they caught.
Moments later, the smoke went up and heat came out. I sat back down, sipped wine, and watched as they took photos of the flames in disbelief.
“Haha, this girl’s a firestarter,” one said.
Just like my father, I thought.
Eventually, the flames would die and red coals would be left.
“Now, we can cook. The coals are actually the best for constant heat,” you taught me. We’d rotisserie marshmallows until yellow golden and melt-y, and hot dogs until their crispy skin cracked.
Patience: a virtue.
I learned to stir the coals to bring the red hot part to surface. The dark part was cooler.
Walking on coals
“Ok, deep breaths. The coals won’t hurt you, just walk steadily and don’t panic,” a friend advised me at a fire walk.
Person after person lined up, took deep breaths, stepped back and shock their arms out, got themselves pumped up to cross, and turned away again. It was hard to trust, to overcome the natural fear of walking on fire.
I walked to the edge and saw the dark surface, red glowing below.
My feet carried me across in a moment.
Fear comes from the unknown, but fire was an old friend.
Firestarting is something I have always and everywhere. It gives me confidence in life and in myself, a sense of hope and awe and patience.
I know how to rebuild.
I know how to begin again, and trust that with care anything will spread.
“Ok, ball up the paper so it burns longer. Place the little sticks on top between the two logs. Light it in several places now close the door. The fluke and vent under will create a draft that pulls the fire upwards onto the wood,” I instruct my new friend on using our cabin stove.
She’s a firestarter now, too. That’s the tower you’ve built.
What you’ve started has been carried around the world. It’s become much bigger than you. I know how to survive, thrive, and help others learn the same.
Thank you for giving me fire.
My own burns red at the core, always ready to ignite.
And, like all good fires, adventures seem to follow.
