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!