Growing up, dark references to the Day Dad Burned the Wheat Field were a staple in any safety lecture, especially one on fire. Until yesterday, I didn't learn the exact method he used.
Out in the middle of the wheat field, Dad had a cave. Whether naturally occurring or child-constructed, I'm not exactly sure. In any case, it was dark enough to require additional lighting, and what could be better than candles?
Dad and the other culprit hung out for a while, then went home, leaving the lit candles behind them.
The candles burned lower and lower. And lower. Just before they would have flickered out harmlessly in the dirt, they found the comic books lying there on the floor of the 'cave'. In a whoosh, the wheat field was gone, defeat snatched from the jaws of victory.
At some point between that memorable day and adulthood, Dad could once again sit down. At least he could sit down by the time I was old enough to remember.
Since Devon is so interested in carrying on family traditions, I must encourage him to learn to play the tuba. At least they don't catch fire.
Until the next conflagration,
Noni Beth
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