A bit of background
I loved my Father. He was a pillar, sometimes literally, in my life. When
I was growing up, his 6’4” form with his ever silvering hair was
always around. He was the one in my family who subscribed to the strange and
esoteric magazines and made us go camping and such. But perhaps I would have
this crazy fascination with what is currently called ‘survivalist’
idea even if he had not always been present.
We went camping fairly often. At least four weekends during the summers from
when I was about two until, well, recently. I was along for the ride to begin
with, but as things progressed, and I started to get old enough I was given
small tasks. Mainly to get me out of the way, I think. But because of that,
I have been able to build a competent fire, without adult supervision, since
I was about seven.
I had to put that ‘without adult supervision’ in. I went through
my pyro phase, but I never did anything worse than clearing the back yard
of a little underbrush when a fire in our back yard jumped out of the fire
ring. I did not panic and was not embarrassed about it, as I probably should
have been, but I ran to get help, it was put out and the next year the weeds
came up in abundance because of the char left.
After the back yard inferno, I was only allowed to make fires in the fireplace
for several years. I could help when we were camping, but I knew that I had
to earn my matches before I could do anything by myself. It never occurred
to me that I could go off out of range of my parents and try building fires
by myself. I was that kind of kid.
Did you know that you can light a fire, the most basic tool to humanity, with
one match? You need a candle stub to do it, but if you use a little slight
of hand to hide it from the newbies shivering around the attempt of a fire
they have been trying to start for an hour, it is most impressive when a roaring
fire is happily burning within five minutes. (Can you tell I have done this?)
My mother and father had differing ideas of what comfort on the range was.
If Thorbjorn, my father’s chosen name, had a blanket and lantern, that
was all he would need. At least he wanted us to think that. Fiona, on the
other hand, camps with a waterbed in her tent. And a Computer. Next to the
waterbed. Did I mention the waterbed? My father never really complained about
the differing camping styles, but then, he slept in the waterbed, too.
We belong to a historical recreation group called the Society for Creative
Anachronism, the SCA. I grew up in it, which is another reason I am completely
demented, but it helped me through school and to learn to deal with things
as they come. Like the fire in the back yard. But I did not realize it until
I was an adult, and sadder, after Thorbjorn died.
When I was a kid, from when I was about 7 to mid-highschool, I did some
incredible bouts of coping with life, which I have found to be the basis of
‘Survivalist’ skills. Looking back and seeing what children are
not allowed to do and usually do now, it seems like I lived a full life before
I was 18. (But then again, I was convinced I was going to die from The Bomb
by the time I was 18, even up to my 19th birthday.)