Yes, of course it’s a good thing that I’m not an arsonist, as I wouldn’t want to burn down anyone’s home or have to sit in jail. It would also just be a poor career choice for me, because I can’t even start a campfire worth a dang.
This has become a family tradition when we’re out in the RV. All of us love campfires, which is unfortunate, because we have yet to be able to light one and keep it lit long enough to roast more than a single round of marshmellows.
Worse, I’m running out of excuses. I’ve already gone through the High Winds, Rain, and Wet Wood Excuses. I still have the Tornado, Tsunami, and Asteroid Excuses, but after that we’re getting pretty thin.
I fully admit my incompetence at starting fires, but I can’t help but think there’s a celestial conspiracy at work. For example, you’d think – through basic logic, if nothing else – that pouring a quart of lighter fluid on a set of spindly logs and lighting it would cause, well, fire.
It does. For about thirty seconds. During that brief window, we have a spectacular and titanic blaze that’s fit to burn your eyebrows off from a hundred paces away. Then it dies.
For this, I am clearly a failure as a Manly Parental Figure, because all boys expect their dad (or stepdad, in my case) to be able to produce fire, other than when homework isn’t done or the litter boxes haven’t been cleaned out. I have already failed in the Fishing Department, because the only fish I can catch are the ones in the seafood section at the grocery store. Two strikes already. I’m doomed.
However, all is not lost. I’ve researched the topic on YouTube and have learned the secrets of making fire from eight year olds who can build a bonfire from nothing more than three paper plates and a single match.
But I think I’ll opt for a flamethrower next time.