Burning the pine.

As a kid, I used to go over to the group of pine trees at the end of our street, dig down into the dried pine needles, and set them alight. Oh how I loved the challenge of putting the flames out before they got too high. I had a bucket of sand next to me and used to throw it on the flames, then feverishly stamp them out. It was fun at the time, and I did it quite many times as I recall.

This particular day I was over the road, doing my usual demonstration of arsonist and CES volunteer, this time with the assistance of a neighbourhood friend, Tabatha Taylor. My Mum didn't like her, not really sure why, it was just the case.

Well, we had played our fire games for a while, and bored from this, we meandered off to find something else to do. Tabatha went her own way, I went back home and headed inside. Not long after I heard some commotion in the front yard, it was my Mum running out the gate, hose in hand, heading over to the pine trees. They were fully alight!

I took one look at the flaming trees, and disappeared, this was not a place to be seen.

Now, I didn't mention that these trees were situated at the end of a block of flats, and therefore, the fact they were alight, caused imminent danger for the residents. Needless to say, there was also a good deal of them out helping with hoses to try and control the flames.

It wasn't long before the fire engines arrived, and fortunately soon after, the flames were out and the flats were spared a parching. They did however, want to know any details from the neibouring houses, as to how this may have happened. I was nowhere to be found, my Mum was most suspicious. Fire, and no me. Guilty.

When they were at the front door talking with my Mum, the curiosity got the better of me, so I surfaced from my hiding spot and poked my head between Mum and the door to see what was going on. Now, at this stage, Mum didn't know what had happened, although she had a fair idea, due to my notable lack of presence. I don't remember the content of the conversation, only that Mum was very anxious to push me back inside, and out of view of the firemen.

She recalls, that she took one look down, and saw my hair, full of pine needles, and to save a possible arson charge, kicked me out the way, whilst politely smiling and denying any knowledge as to the source of the fire. The firemen left, she came hunting.

I do not recall another hand burning lesson, although, I am sure my ass was on fire, for some time after the dressing down I would have copped for that one. And poor old Tabatha, well I hung her out to dry, what else was a guilty boy to do? Sadly, we were never to socialise again, Mum's orders.

I don't hang out under pine trees these days, but I still love fire.

Light a match.

Yep, as a kid, I loved fire. Actually, I still do. There is nothing better, than sitting in front of an open flame, staring in, getting lost in the flicker, crackle and radiant warmth.

My early memories of fire, were not so soothing, allow me.

Growing up, I once lost my bedsocks somewhere at the deep end of my bed. So, I thought it a suitable idea to go fetch them, aided by the light of a box of matches. Now, when you're young, you're not making that much space between the mattress, and the doona, however I forged on. I ended up finding my socks, not a remarkably difficult task, I confess, but unfortunately it did not go unnoticed by my mother.

As I skulked down to breakfast, my Mum asked why she could smell matches, "I dunno", I said. She walked closer, rubbed her hand on my forehead, disturbing what was left of a singed fringe, totally singed, singed off in fact.

I was in a wee bit of trouble.

With no where to go, I confessed to my expedition, which was not so well received by my Mum, and so she decided, as good parents do, to teach me a suitable lesson so that I would not do it again. Hide the matches? Give me a torch? Show an example of something burning? No....

She light a match, blew it out, then burned my hand with it!

Well, I can tell you, it fucking hurt! I still have a small scar on my hand to prove it.

Well, not to be outdone by this "lesson", I thought I might get my own back. I went to school, and in our daily writing exercise, recounted the bedsock episode, and the burned hand I received as punishment. I then proceeded to read it to the class.

This all ended well, with a meeting with my Mum and the teacher, where she assured the teacher of our impeccable family balance.

I wasn't burned again, at least by my Mum!

Release me.

I was standing in the lounge room of the house I grew up in as a kid. In the corner, my Dad lay dead, in his coffin. We were to bury him today.

It was June of 1995, I was 18 then, he had died of a heart attack, his third. He was 44.

He was a man that lived life, hard. He, as many do in the country, drank, smoked, and laboured, in his case, at the local power station. He was also a supremely talented sportsman, more so a footballer. So the fable goes, the most talented full forward to come out of the Spencer Gulf. In a small country town, my Dad, they all called "Wigg", was a legend.

My Mum and Dad had divorced, when I was nine. Myself and my older brother had moved to Adelaide with Mum, what would prove to be a prosperous move for us all, at the time though, it made no sense.

Whilst it is not a day I will forget, I remember a few things about it, vividly.

We woke up early and drove to Port Augusta, I wanted to arrive early, as we had an opportunity to see him, before the procession for the burial. It was a clear day, but it was still cold. The heater was on in the house, it was a kerosene heater. That is vivid memory #1, any time I smell burning kero, I gag.

Dad was still very involved with footy. He had also been a successful senior coach, but had recently taken to coaching the under 14's. He and his mate, having fun teaching the youngsters, they loved it. He was taking them on a warm up lap, jogging and bouncing the ball around the oval he made his own, when he collapsed. By the time the ambulance had arrived, he was pronounced dead.

I took a deep breath, wiped away the tears and walked slowly across the room. I was petrified. Without a doubt, walking across that room, and looking into the coffin, has been the single hardest thing I have had to do in my life.

He looked peaceful. Strong. Well groomed, and masked with a slight smirk, he was famous for it. I cried, a lot. It took me some time until I could talk to him, I gathered myself and whispered a few things. I told him that I loved him, that I would miss him, and that I would go on to be a man he would be proud of. As I spoke to him, I tucked a gold medal in his top pocket, right above his failed heart. It may have stopped beating, but it was golden, to the core.

He must have fallen hard when he collapsed, there was a mark still visible under his eye. They had used make up to cover it, that is vivid memory #2. The smell of that makeup. I have only smelt it once since that day, it gave me chills, and I am sure the person wearing knew it, it was impossible to hide.

I guess I must have been going through a Pearl Jam phase at the time, as TEN was the album I decided to play on the final drive in to Port Augusta. The CD was on random, and as we were entering the city limits, and went past the cemetery, Release came on. All other songs had been played, this was the last one. Coincidence, most likely, but it sure was eery. I had played this song the night he died, I light a candle, sat there and watched it as this song played. That is vivid memory #3.

There are many other things about that day I remember and recall, frequently. The overweight funeral director whose tie wasn't even half way down his shirt front, the guard of honour his under 14's team made as we entered the cemetery, the amazing amount of people who turned up to pay their respects, and the love and adoration one man had, from far and wide. We shared beers, tears and laughs with many of them that night.

One of his good mates said to me as we left to drive back to Adelaide, "Son, if you turn out to be half the man your father was, you will be a fine individual."

Well Dad, I'm still trying.

Release me.