Boys, flint and steel, and smoke

We just got home from our annual Father-Son camp-out with our Cub Scout pack, Boy Scout troop, and all the younger brothers.

I got there early with my boys. We set up the battery powered foam ball pitching machine. We enjoyed a couple of hours of batting practice before dinner was served. We ate chicken and chips and drank lemonade before the boys formed up by age group and disappeared. Some of the older boys went back to the pitching machine. A Nerf football game started, and some boys were playing laser tag. I sat down in the shade to rest for a few minutes in a collapsible blue camping chair. I chatted with a couple of the other dads that were there. We were discussing the subtle taste differences in the new Pepsi compared to when it was made with cane sugar. I can't taste the difference.

Then I saw something out of the corner of my eye. A cloud of white smoke funneled up from a grove of trees next to the picnic tables. Through the trunks of the aspens I made out the shape of half a dozen younger boys surrounding a small fire.

I looked over at the dad next to me. His eyes met mine and he said, "Don't look at me, my boys are grown up, that's gotta be your kids." He laughed a nostalgic chuckle that made me look forward to being a couple of decades older.

I pushed myself up from the chair and trotted over to the plume of smoke. My six-year-old was crouched down next to a small circle of rocks they used to make a fire pit. He was feeding the small fire one pine needle at a time with a look of pure delight on his face.

"What are you boys doing?" I asked.

"Brock's Dad said we could start a fire." My son looked up with no guilt in his eyes. He was either becoming a seasoned liar, or he truly believed he had permission to build a fire.

"I'm pretty sure he didn't want a fire next to all these trees."

"But we brought water to put it out." My son said as he went from crouching to kneeling. He reached for a little Dixie cup full of water. It might have been big enough to hold two shot glasses of liquid.

"I'm glad you are being safe. Poor it on the fire and build a new one in the big fire pit over there." I pointed past my camp seat to the big fire pit.

My son poured the water onto their small fire. I was surprised to see it go out so easily. One of the other boys immediately pulled a flint and steel kit from his pocket and dropped to a knee where he proceeded to launch sparks into the muddy remnants of their fire. His face squinted with determination, like a medic doing CPR on a child, determined to restore the flame of life. After several strikes he let out a deep sigh and his shoulders drooped. I restrained the desire to call out the time of death.

He took another breath and jumped up as the team effort came back to life. "I'll get more pine needles." My son called out.

"I'll get more paper." The boy with the flint and steel responded as he bee-lined for his tent. "Everyone else get more sticks." He yelled over his shoulder as the group scattered.

I went back to my seat. The other dad was still laughing at me. We quit talking about sugar cane and tried to determine how young is too young to give a boy a piece of fire starting equipment. He was pretty adamant that I was still too young for that kind of thing.