My husband of 57 years who now resides in Heaven was an expert at fire making. I never asked him if his short stint as a Cub Scout whetted that appetite, or whether six weeks of Pioneer camp when he was a preteen solidified his expertise. I only know he knew how to make a fire that initially flared hot and brilliant. And then, with special tweaking, nuance—a piece of kindling here, a new log there, an added poker proficiency—the fire smoldered and spit and crackled and hummed, giving off a comforting glow, a steady heat as long as we were able to enjoy it.
