Come On Baby Light My Fire....But Not Like THAT

You're Too Old to Spend the Rest of Your Life on the Couch: Let's Adventure!

Photo by Jaime Spaniol on Unsplash

The dangers of do-it-yourselfers and dumb moves

It was late November, and wickedly cold at altitude. Our tiny A-frame cabin was in the woods at 9000 feet, high above Evergreen, Colorado. Not a place to be after hunting season, but here we were.

No internet, just scenery. And the cold.

The cabin had zero insulation and single-pane windows. My lust-of-the-moment was down in Denver working, as he did six days a week, and I was stuck at home with nothing but my pegs to get me anywhere.

There was nowhere to go, anyway, because we’d had a huge snow dump. The skies had cleared and left the kind of deep, bone-breaking cold that can crack a spruce tree.

I’m not down for that kind of cold. For adventures maybe but not for living in.

That day, I’d taken an afternoon nap and foolishly had forgotten to put more wood into the maw of the pot-bellied stove. That monstrosity dominated the small living area of the cabin and since we had limited electricity, it was the single source of heat.

Because of where the cabin was situated, we lost the sun by 2 pm and what watery warmth it offered.

By this time, the adventure of mountain living with the current flame had begun to flame out. At this point, I needed serious flame or I’d be a people popsicle by the time my lusticle got home.

I opened the front door of the stove, shoved in a load of wood and kindling. Then as it got darker I cast around for something to set it ablaze. I had matches, but that wouldn’t get it going fast enough.

I needed to light this thing fast.

So I found the container of kerosene that was in the kitchen and splashed a hefty bit of it on the wood, and a little more for good measure.

Just in case.

Then I threw in a match.

Photo by Jonas Frey on Unsplash

To this day I am gobsmacked I didn’t set the whole cabin on fire.

As it was, since I was sitting right in front of the open door, the force of the flame seared off an eyebrow, all my eyelashes, all my peach fuzz and pretty much shaved one side of my noggin bare.

Incredibly, no burns.

Just made me shart my shorts and gave me a haircut that preceded modern styles by some thirty-five years.

Later that night the lusticle came home.

I really like that word, lusticle. I thought I had made it up and it was all mine.

But no, Urban Dictionary defines it thus:

The usurped scrotum contents of a man in heat.

Well my lusticle was most definitely not in heat at that moment and for quite some time afterwards, given that I looked as though I had a serious case of mange.

I recovered with the help of some creams, a talented hair dresser and one hell of a good sense of humor.

And moved back to a house that had heat. But not like the one below.

Let’s play.

Photo by Gustavo Zambelli on Unsplash

I hope you had another good laugh at my expense. I love sharing these stories which make fun of my foibles. If you enjoyed it please consider

If you know anyone else who might get a bang out of these, please consider

Either way, remember that our fails make our best stories. Okay, once we heal, that is.