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| Should have clearer instructions about not filling with gas and playing under the house |
My brother and I were into fires, not a passing playing with matches fancy, more like the kind that involves accelerants. We were well versed in the old standby of gasoline, but we were always looking for ways to expand our repertoire.
My dad's business used all sorts of flammable substances, glues, solvents and the like used in tragically non-fire-starting, legitimate ways. We were compelled to re-purpose them in more entertaining ways. We smeared flammable glues onto surfaces and then try and light them by throwing lit matches at them. We poured solvents into trenches built around ant piles in the famous flaming ant moat maneuver. We held matches in front of an aerosol can and made an awesome flame-thrower. Molotov's? Molotov's? This isn't amateur hour so, heck, yes.
Where were our parents? I am not sure. I almost got caught lighting some alcohol on fire just before my dad came around the corner to talk to us. He never noticed the fire because alcohol burns nearly clear. Bullet dodged. Everything went along fine until one day we bought some miniature heart shaped kerosene lanterns on clearance from the pharmacy. We brought them home and filled them with gasoline and lit them, which was awesome. By reason of our stupidity we thought it would be even better to play with fire under the house.
We brought the lanterns and some gas in a cup and were fooling around with them on the concrete pad under the mobile home. For those few who have not spent much time underneath a mobile home, I will set the scene for you. It is dark, dusty and filled with cobwebs. It has just about enough clearance to crawl, but the main beams stick down close to the ground and cut the clearance to about a belly crawl. There are also lots of pipes and wires hanging down. Best of all though is that parents never, ever, go under a mobile home. One of the lamps tipped over and spilled its gas, but it was actually pretty cool looking so we watched the gas burn on the pad until it was about to go out. I decided to re-stoke the fire with a little of the gas that we had brought. This is where things could have gone terribly wrong. The whole cup of gas lit on fire in a flash, but somehow managed not to light either Matt or I on fire and the house only lost cob webs. We were singed and rattled but otherwise no worse for wear.
So, constant reader know this, that old saying about how God protects pyromaniacs is true. That's not an old saying? Well, it darn well should be. If this anecdote doesn't prove it, I don't know what will.
