Where there's smoke ...

One rather gray autumn afternoon when I was about eight years old, some of us kids were hanging around the vacant lot next to Chuckie Larson’s house on the next street over.  This empty space was our baseball diamond and football field and general hanging-out place.  On this particular day, someone decided it would be fun to make a bonfire.

I joined in with the others, roaming the neighborhood looking for flammable objects to add to the fire.  I got my hands and my clothes rather sooty from the ashes, but I was having a great time, even though down deep I had the nagging suspicion that playing with fire was something I probably shouldn’t be doing.

At one point I looked up and, to my horror, saw our 1951 Oldsmobile 88 coming down the street with my mother at the wheel.  I ran to meet her, mostly to divert her attention.  She told me to get in the car – she had to go to the store and wanted me to go with her, since there was nobody at home.

Realizing what a mess I was, I opened the back door and climbed in.  “Why are you getting in the back?” she wanted to know.  My brother and I used to fight to see who got to ride in the front seat and never voluntarily got into the back.  I said, “Oh, I’ve decided it’s way more fun back here,” or something equally inane.  Used to inexplicable juvenile logic, she just shrugged.

We hadn't gone half a block before my mother said, “Do you smell something burning?”  Afraid she was smelling the smoke from my clothes, I replied innocently and emphatically, "No!"

It was then that I looked down and saw that my pant leg was on fire.