Don’t play with matches!

The time I almost burned my brother: I am sure all of us can identify with the exploits that occur when we are young. As children, we are naive and do not fully comprehend the consequences of our actions. Families build strong and irreplaceable memories. It is to be noted that a lack of strong family bonds is often a precursor to a troubled and difficult life. (1) In my life, this has fortunately not been the case, though the mischievous Devil often came knocking at the door.

Where I grew up there was little snow but abundant rain; winters were wet and cold. Long before the concept of a clothes dryer, my parents had a drying room. I remember always being soaked and constantly undressing in this area. One particular day, the stove would not light. Frustrated and after innumerable tries, I relented and snuck into my father’s “forbidden” workshop to steal something to assist in the combustion.

The choices were many. Erring on the side of the expedient, I chose gasoline knowing that it would light, without question. Stealthily slipping back into the aforementioned room, I liberally sprinkled the liquid on top of the twigs and paper assembled in the stove. I convinced one of my younger brothers to hold the lid as I threw in the match.

The fire stick touched the material and for a brief second, nothing. Then, a primordial sound emanated from the stove followed by a wash of flame. My shirt literally fell off; much more horrifying were my blond brother’s eyebrows — gone, along with the front of his hair. He began to weep uncontrollably. Feeling no compassion, just my mother’s wrath, I instructed him to cease and bundled him into the shower to wash away the ciders lying on his face and hair.

In the washing, I instructed him — rather forcefully, I must say — to keep this unfortunate incident between us “men.” My mother, being a woman, would truly not be able to understand manly pursuits like lighting errant wood stoves. It was dinner time.

We had a large dining room. I sat beside my mother and opposite my slightly burned brother. Ours was a boisterous home and we were a rather close family. My mother’s hawk-like eyes soon began to fix their gaze on my brother. “Francis, why are you so red?” I stared defiantly at the tragic victim.

“Talk and you know the consequences,” I instructed with my eyes. “I don’t know mommy, maybe I am a little sick.” My mother, though not truly convinced, let the conversation die. My brother recovered — and went on to a fulfilling professional life. And, to this day, I have retained a healthy respect for fire.

The writer and thinker, Richard Bach, (2) leaves us with a thought: The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other’s life. (Parts of this essay were first published in December 2012)

A closing thought: We all can remember being young. It is a time of great adventure and, for most, also a time of great trauma — of great challenges. The secret of a successful life is to not carry the sins of youth into the annals of maturity; no regrets, just lessons.

To sum up: This week, we spoke about the adventure of being young.

To be noted: From a Russian proverb — The riches that are in your heart cannot be stolen.

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