I was probably about 6-and-a-half years of age when I discovered stove matches and what they could do. With a few of them in my pocket, I wandered down the street to Doug’s house.

On lush green grass in the backyard, we performed a series of somersaults. It was great fun until a nearby object drew our attention, which was something one could scratch a match on, a nice red brick.

Somersaults dislodged all but one match from my pocket. Doug knew what to do by gathering a dry clump of grass out beyond the green stuff. I carefully scratched the one match, and a nifty flame burst upon the scene.

The dry August clump of grass made quick friends with the swell flames of the match, when a whisper of slight breeze was just enough to carry the burning clump to the dry grass, and more smoke began to swirl about.

Television at Doug’s house was the dancing teacher every Friday. Thus, it being a Friday, we danced around a little circle to the beat of the redskin Indians’ drums, just as they did many moons ago.

All of a sudden, the wind picked up! Flames began to eat up the dry grass. Clouds of smoke made it hard to see. Tears and coughing ensued, and four little stomping feet were to no avail, quelling a frightening event.

“Doug!” I said, “Get some water.” He ran into his house, and returned with a half-glass of water, throwing it on the menacing grass fire with zero results.

“What will we do now, John?”

“Run,” I screamed to Doug.

Doug’s mother was coming out the back door with a broom in her hand while Doug slipped in behind her.

I streaked to my house, up the stairs, down the hall to my parents’ bedroom, where Mom was trying to get over one of her migraines. I quickly ducked under the bed and curled myself into a ball-like position while the sirens of rumbling fire trucks roared past the house.

The question came then! “What did you do, John?”

“Nothing, Mom,” I gulped.

She said, “Are you afraid of the sirens?”

“Kinda!” I said.

Several anxious moments passed until I could hear the sound of the trucks starting up, and I knew the fire was probably out.

Later that evening, with some prodding by my folks, I tearfully confessed to the matter that I would “never, ever, ever, play with matches again.”

Sleep was elusive, interrupted by sirens from the far-away downtown area, then the smell of imagined smoke, and no, the grass just couldn’t be flaming up again, and then I shivered off to sleep.

It was 3 a.m. when Mom entered my room and sat down on my bed while handing me a cup of warm milk, adding, “It helps worried people get to sleep.”

“How did you know I was worried, Mom?” I said. Mother replied, “Mothers know! So listen, little boy, your dad went to the firehouse and explained everything to Casey.” I asked “Who is Casey?” Mom replied, “Casey is the boss, the chief, and your father’s longtime friend, who tore up the report he had been writing about the confined small grass fire!” Mother said, “It means that you and Doug will have to do tidying up where you little Indians desiccated a good neighbor’s lawn.”

“Tomorrow, your dad wants to talk to you! Now drink that milk, and go to sleep!”

In the morning, Dad said, “Son, what is it about matches that fascinates you?”

I said, “Well, it started when you would flick your fingernail on the tip of the match to light it, and when it burned for a moment, I’d take a deep breath and blow it out!”

For the curious, I never became one of the psycho whatchamacallits, but I do enjoy fireworks!

I’m now in my high 70s, and once in a while as I light my pipe as Dad did, I can see Doug running toward the flames with that half-spilled glass of water, and I chuckle to myself.

John A. Klimm lives in Tupper Lake.