Ten years old or so, I decided to experience the joys of making a fire. Primitive tribal instincts not withstanding, I determined to explore an obvious technique to start a fire.

My home in Brooklyn shared a common driveway with our next door neighbors leading to the rear of our houses and the two garages. The neighbors were very friendly with my family, a delightful thing to be able to say since we were very close, only the width of a car apart.

I had observed my dad make a fire in a fireplace in a summer bungalow he bought near the beginning of WW II. I saw the relationship of paper and kindling followed by successful results.

I knew I knew the formula for successful fire making and took a thin cardboard box that had contained Petit Fours, my favorite cookies from Sutter's, a neighborhood bakery, into which I placed several small pieces of scrap wood. I brought this potential bomb behind our garage housing the family Packard, adjacent to the neighbor's garage and its neat Ford. About four to five feet separated these garages from the garage belonging to the house behind us on the next block. This made a great place to hide during Hide and Seek games.

In the forties, most everyone smoked and matches were ubiquitous. I ignited the bakery box and almost immediately, three foot high flames shot from behind the garage but were quickly subdued into thick choking smoke. I elected to urinate onto the bonfire to save the garages. My bladder still has significant capacity.

Having seen thick clouds of white and gray smoke billow and swell from behind the garage, our next door neighbor came to the source and damn near died. With extreme excitement, she ran inside my house and informed my mom of the potential disaster.

I knew all about the "Cat and Nine Tails." A dozen or more two foot long, quarter inch thick strips of leather, bunched and tied together at one end. It always hung from a cup hanger in the small pantry adjacent to the kitchen. A big threat that was rarely used and reminiscent of the French Reveloution, naval mutinies and the Inquisition. Allah be praised. Just kidding.

Mom did her mom things. I've blotted out a lot of stuff in my memory, denial being a characteristic of mine. I do remember her saying, "Wait until your father gets home."

Interesting how timing plays nasty tricks. Dad happened to have a gift for me when he came home. I've forgotten why. An unusual event. It was a beautiful, colorful wind-up metal speed boat, almost a foot long with a nifty propeller, to play with while taking a bath in the bath tub. Damn.

Dad hid my toy on the top of a tall piece of furniture by the stairs leading to the upstairs bedrooms and bathroom. I could see the boat from the top of the stairs and was very unhappy that I couldn't have it, but was happy as hell I still had skin on my butt.

The next bath was fun.