it's the pyro family

My family is gathered around the fireplace, eyes glazed over, my husband prodding the pile of burning wood to encourage more flame. Or something. I am not really sure what the point is, since I do not share the fascination with fire that my husband has. My children, apparently, have inherited the pyro gene from him, and they are enthralled with this fire building process.

It's a good thing that they are enjoying this activity, because we are on a tiny island in the San Juans, spending time with my husband's sister Cindy, her husband Richie, and their son Alex, in a cabin with no TV. We do have wi-fi, though. And the ability to make fire.

Richie has taken to calling us "the Pyro Family."

Living up to this new moniker, my husband and the kids built an impressive campfire last night, an architecturally-inspired pyre that was the same height as our daughter. The kids had discovered that if you put dried grasses on the fire, they make crackling, popping noises and create miniature pyrotechnic displays as the grasses writhe and fizzle into the flames. Like firecrackers. Must be a Chinese thing.

Whatever the case, our campfire was quite a sight, and our marshmallows were no match for its greatness. It took a while, but the fire eventually mellowed in a few spots to the right temperature, embers glowing, inviting us to give our marshmallows that lightly bronzed glow. Unfortunately, since I was really eager to eat my marshmallows, I had already flash-fried several of them over the blazing hot flames.

As I gazed into the campfire, I felt the tug of pyromania, but resisted easily. I do not seem to have the pyro gene. My husband is definitely a carrier, and he exhibited symptoms early on in life. As family legend goes, he was about four years old when he came running up to the kitchen and asked, “Mom? Can I have a glass of water?” Sensing something odd in his demeanor, she followed him down to the family room ... where the sofa had somehow caught on fire. Thanks to motherly intuition, this story is just amusing (in an oh-my-god-what-a-pyro kind of way), with a happy ending. My husband still waxes nostalgic as he recalls how much fun he was having lighting matches and watching Kleenex burn. How was he supposed to know the sofa would catch on fire, too? He was just a little kid! And burning Kleenex looks so cool!

Given the family history, I have tried to shield my kids from too many opportunities to experiment with fire. No need to tempt fate and genetics. But on this trip, we have actually encouraged the building of fires. And it has become pretty obvious that both of the kids have inherited the pyro gene. It has been an unexpected bonding experience, and “Hey, let’s build a fire!” has become a common refrain, laced with uncommon glee. In spite of my anxiety, I actually appreciate that they are having fun doing this activity together. Family time is a valuable commodity, even if it is Pyro Family time.

As I write this, my kids have successfully made a fire. Thankfully, it is in the fireplace.