I grew up in the rural Piney Woods of East Texas. I had a wholesome country childhood that involved waking up to birds chirping, exploring the woods surrounding our home, and learning vital survival and environmental skills. It was like spending your entire pre-pubcesence as a Boyscout on a wilderness weekend, learning to recognize poison sumac and using moss on a tree trunk to find due North and creating fire with a flint rock. With this kind of daily experience, you are set for life, ready to live a self-sustaining existence like Jeremiah Johnson (I think, I never actually watched that movie, but I wanted you to think I know all about classic Robert Redford films).
Unfortunately, I did not actually have this kind of childhood. I read books throughout adolescence, and apparently they didn't reach me much of the common sense I would have gained had I taken more looks around my physical world. Aside from reading Hatchet, an book that actually teaches children about basic survival and efficiently using all of the possible resources at your disposal, I read a lot of fiction kid stuff that only describe a protagonist's inner struggle between good and evil or the harrowing tales of underdogs rising to their full potential and proving the nay-sayers of the world wrong. Rubbish, essentially.
The tour-de-force of my failure to understand basic common sense occurred one evening when my parents started a bonfire out in our spatial pasture. Living on a farm on many acres, my family was blessed with seclusion, natural surroundings, and (except for me) a resourcefulness to take care of ourselves. My step-dad had changed the oil of our tractor earlier in the day, at least I think so because he had a five-gallon bucket of used oil, which he used as a propellant to get the bonfire started.
Before I go any further, I would like to make the statement that I understand how completely environmentally crappy this was of us to start a fire with oil. That was a long time ago, and my step-dad is a good man, and he only did it for a little while until our firewood caught aflame. Okay? Still friends? Great.
Anyway, after using the oil to start our bonfire, my step-dad sat down next to my mother, and we all watched the flames for a while and enjoyed being together out under the stars. Since I was a stupid little kid, though, I soon got bored and looked for other means of entertainment. Although my parents never approved of my playing with fire, I found a long, thin stick halfway emerged in the flames with the other half sticking out towards me, a perfect handle to a perfect torch with which to explore. I took the handle and pulled the stick out of the flames, but I was disappointed to find that given the thinness and greenness of the stick, the flame soon puttered out from the tip of my otherwise perfect torch.
I spent several minutes re-emerging my stick into the fire, hoping to ignite it long enough to walk away from the fire and find some adventures like Indiana Jones. However, it just wasn't working. I impatiently looked around for something to help me with my endeavors.
That was when my eyes fell upon the five-gallon bucket of oil.
I realized that I could dip my stick into the oil, which would definitely help my flame stay lit at the end of my torch, which had already burned out again. I approached the bucket and coated the end of my stick with runny, black oil. I was thrilled to discover that my stick did in fact catch fire very quickly with my propellant on it, but the flame still did not last long enough for my enjoyment. I practiced dipping my extinguished stick for different durations of time or exposing it to the bonfire for a longer period of time, with no success.
Then, I had an epiphany. If dipping the extinguished torch into the oil was not producing my desired results, then surely it would work if I put the stick into the bucket while it was still aflame. That would help the fire stay lit long enough, and I could run around with my torch to my heart's content. I quickly set my plan into action. I burned my stick for a few seconds and when a flame appeared at the tip, I walked it to the bucket of oil. I slowly lowered the burning stick closer and closer to the surface of the oil. I distinctly remember that the flame illuminated the surface of the oil, and I could see the reflection of my own face hovering over the bucket, watching the flame come within inches of the liquid.
If anybody does not see a problem at this point, let me inform you: I SHOULD HAVE DIED THAT NIGHT!! Had that flame touched that high volume of combustible oil, I would have sent my parents and myself straight to the Promised Land in a burning ball of hot oily fire. I should have blown up like a firecracker, but at the last possible microsecond before I plunged that flame into that oil and self-destructed my entire family, I heard my mother's worried shrill pierce through my own pyromaniac thoughts of glory with, "TIFFANY, WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU DOING?!"
Before I could explain my reasonable intentions, though, my parents seized my failed torch, gave me a very quick and angry lecture on the combustibility of such a large amount of oil, and sent me to the house so that I wouldn't kill everyone. I don't think we had another bonfire for quite a while after that.
Looking back now, I can't help but marvel at the wondrous timing of my mother's intervention that saved our family from a fiery death, and I also wonder at how a child who was really old enough to know better could be so thick-headed. I am proud to say that I now have a vast knowledge on basic chemical reactions (and even some more advanced reactions!) and am doing much better at staying alive through fundamental brain functioning.
However, I also think that more children's books should address the topic of things you shouldn't do that would turn your family into an atomic fireball.
