Campfire

Saturday morning broke with the excitement of an upcoming Cub Scout camp fire -- the boys were looking forward to roasting hot dogs and s'mores. Unfortunately, it also brought with it the next round of this winter's weekly storms.

The day was promising at first -- clear skies, and not much rain at all, until precisely 5:06 p.m. That was the moment I was heading out to the camp with my car loaded full of food, wood and other camp fire supplies. And that was the moment the skies opened up and rained down on our plans.

But we are not a group to be dissuaded. The den leader and his gracious wife opened their house to us, offering up a covered patio. I immediately turned around and headed home to get my "portable" fire pit. (Portable in quotes because the beautiful tiles around the edges make the pit pretty heavy.)

Mark helped me carry the fire pit out to the car, and then skeptically observed that it might not fit. After the first try, I agreed. But I am not one to quit in the face of sane, logical thinking, so with an Incredible Hulk-like roar, I hoisted that giant pit in the air again and crammed it into the back seat of my compact car with all my might. It fit, just barely, and so I pushed some more until I could close the door. Mark's eyes were huge -- I'm not sure if he was just surprised, or a bit frightened, at my determination.

Turns out the location change didn't bother the boys at all. They were just thrilled to be lighting a fire. The den leader taught them the right way to light a match (point down, strike firmly against the box, toss away from you) and then passed one out to each boy. They could barely stand the excitement.

"I lit a match!" one boy cried, triumphantly. I honestly think that was the best part of the evening for them all.

Then it was into the house to load up hot dogs on the roasting sticks. The boys crammed them on and made their way out to the fire, careful not to jab anybody. (I took away one fork with a paper plate wrapped around the base, which the boy was brandishing as a sword.) They held the dogs over the fire, and then, as 10-year-old boys are known to do, let loose with every wienie joke they could imagine.

Somehow, the bun-to-hot dog ratio was way off -- we used all but one pack of hot dogs, but had four packs of buns left. I think it had something to do with half the hot dogs "accidentally" falling into the fire. (Accidentally in quotes because each time a wienie fell, there was an appreciate round of "Whoa!" as they watched the wienie burn up.) My own son cooked at least four hot dogs, but I only saw him eat one.

After a game of Leave No Trace charades and a lesson on how to burn and fuse the end of a rope, the boys were ready for s'mores. Miraculously, not one marshmallow fell into the fire, like all the hot dogs did. (You could tell where the hot dogs listed priority-wise compared to marshmallows.) However, once lowered over the flames, most of them immediately exploded into burning, gooey torches, but the group of boys worked together, blowing them out quickly. The boys really dug that part.

With all the activities complete and the sugar running freely through their veins, the boys attacked the play set on the lawn. The rain, wet equipment and lone girl determined to take turns fairly and democratically on the swing, did not slow them down. They were like wild banshees clambering and climbing all over it.

The constant rain slowed us down a bit, but didn't stop us. The boys successfully lit a fire, managed not to burn the house down, and ran through the house with various smoldering hot food on the end of sharp-pointed long forks -- all without injury. And best of all, they had a blast doing it.

Which to me equals success. :-)