Pyro

I haven't written too much about my Dad. He was industrious - well, maybe more like ADD -, creative in his own way, (which was usually the result of a great deal of frugality) and patient with every one's children except his own. He loved to have fun even though he always felt guilty about it afterward and had a sweet tooth the size of the Matterhorn. He's still all of these things. However, the trait that defines him best, captures his reckless side, involves his benevolent faith that he is always protected by a higher power and excites his still juvenile sense of adventure is his pyromania.
Fire has always been my father's companion. His philosophy can be summed up as, "When it doubt, burn it. When it's in your way, set it ablaze. When you need a little cheer, light it up. When you're bored, burn something and watch the literal incarnation of "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Purify it with fire."

I mean seriously, who else lights his child's first birthday cake with a blow torch? Why else would someone use gasoline to light a barbecue - all the time and as a matter of practice as opposed to desperation? There was the motor oil on the snowy logs in the fireplace ("just to get them going"). Every fall, huge piles of brush and leaves begged for incineration. And part of me still believes that the only reason we moved to a new house in the late 70s was that the new house had an incinerator in the basement and a yard big enough to build a fire pit. He didn't really care if it was illegal - that was interpreted as a technicality that couldn't be meant for him.

The funniest thing about this picture is that this isn't the only one. There are more. Loads of them. He still loves fire and will disregard almost any neighborhood regulation or city ordinance if it means he gets to or wants to light things on fire.
Once, when we were on vacation in another country we stayed at a place that had tiny beach cabins, picnic tables and fire pits by the lake shore. The only thing that the campground didn't come with was ready fire wood. In his desperation, he decided that one of the picnic tables was dangerous. 'Someone might get hurt', he said. It had to be burned. Of course, he had to rip it apart before the pieces would fit in the fire pit. He happened to have brought a saw along. Apparently, this wasn't an issue either. So we cooked our dinner that evening by burning the picnic table - we ate our dinner from the other one. Thank God there was alcohol and no other guests.