Campfire By Committee

Time for my account of the annual Ferrin Family Fracas in the Mountains. The names have not been changed because the guilty know perfectly well who they are.

It is time for the Huntsmans to host the monthly Birthday Bash. We could go to Grandma's, or we could host it at our house...but the only way we would host it at our house is if we were doing a weenie roast over the burning embers of the house itself. I think it would be an easier way to get it clean, but apparently the insurance company frowns on that. Bugger. So why don't we go to a cleaner environment (cleaner than our house, not Grandma's) and picnic in the mountains? Joy!

Since I gave up on cooking and grocery shopping years ago, there wasn't much else for me to do except go up early and hold the spot. All I had to do was get up early (noonish) on Saturday and drive up the canyon, find the place, set up my camp chair, and read a book. All doable except for the getting up early part. Yes, I gave up on working Friday nights but my body clock didn't. I still managed to drag myself out of bed, get ready, and drive like a maniac hoping that I didn't miss my chance.

My big worry was the fact that there were what the weather people politely call "wind gusts" in the Salt Lake valley that day. The "gusts" were enough that I was glad to be a woman of some size in my tiny car. I think I saw small children flying past. As I went up the canyon, I hoped that the wind would calm down, because it might make it slightly difficult to have a campfire. I figured that either we would never get it going, or we would get it going and then set Big Cottonwood Canyon on fire shortly afterward. Then the rich people who built their houses in the forest would be really peeved that they burnt down. Maybe they would come burn down my house. Maybe it wouldn't be all that bad...

It is thinking jags like this that always get me in trouble. For instance, I completely missed the turnoff to our favorite picnic spot. Let me substitute "favorite" for other important phrases like "quick to get to" and "the place where we told everyone the picnic would be at". I realized I was in trouble when I got to the ski resort. "Funny" I thought, "I don't remember passing a ski resort last year..." Umm, I had overshot by a good 10 miles. Oops. Fortunately, there was another picnic spot just past the ski resort or we might have ended up having our picnic in Heber City. (Which is not a city at all). Or maybe Wyoming. (Which doesn't have any cities. Or non-windy picnic spots.)

At this point, I had to call my husband and confess that I had already screwed up my part of the party. The good news: it wasn't that windy on top of the mountain. (And I do mean ON TOP). The bad news: I would have to call everyone and tell them of our change in plans. After breaking out in the Ferrin rash that happens when I have to call people, I actually did it. Bad news: it wasn't until I called Neil and Leann that it occurred to me to mention the 20 degree temperature difference on top of the mountain. They nicely brought extra sweaters and sweatshirts. It would have been really perfect if we all had arms the length of Neil's. (Perhaps if I was hosting a picnic for the Utah Jazz?)

OK, now I wanted to execute my secret plan. This year, I would start the fire, alone. Not only that, but I would do it without paper products or liquid hydrocarbons. Hah! I knew I would have to gather lots of tinder (the really little stuff) and kindling (the sort of little stuff) before I could burn the logs. Or is kindling the little stuff and tinder the sort of little stuff? I can never remember. Oh well.

Problem is, there was lots of recent dampness in our picnic spot. By recent dampness, I mean that there was evidence of new rivers that had not been there previously. As I recall from years of girl's camp in Pennsylvania (Latin for: "Rains every day except for the days that it snows") damp wood is a real bugger to get to light on fire without aforementioned liquid hydrocarbons. Bah. So I found what I could that was dry. It took a lot longer than I thought it would, which meant that I didn't have much time to construct my fire and light it.

I decided to make the traditional "tepee" fire. Unfortunately my tepee making skills are up there with my housecleaning and organizing skills. My tepee looked more like a rickety shed filled with stuff. I tried lighting it a couple of times, and it ALMOST worked. But not quite. If I would have had a little more time, I think I could have gotten it. Really.

Too late. The rest of the family is now showing up. And by "rest of the family" I mean "Pyromaniacs like unto myself who cannot resist the urge to help with the campfire." It took my teenagers about 3.2 nanoseconds to inform me that I was "doing it wrong". Big surprise there. The rest of the family circled the rickety-shed-campfire-to-be like vultures around a bleeding corpse. Needless to say, they suggested the use of paper products and liquid hydrocarbons. Of course.

To make a short story shorter, the fire, certain family relationships, and the freezing masses were saved by my brother-in-law Josh, who was nice enough not to comment on my rickety shed apparatus. Instead, he actually got DRY wood and constructed a tepee that very small people could have lived in for awhile. I was only slightly relieved to find that it took him more than once to light his fire, although my teenagers missed that small detail. "See, he got his going. You were doing it wrong." Really?

Next year I just won't tell them where the picnic is. Perhaps I'll try for Nevada. Should be plenty of dry...never mind.

A new blog...apparently...all about STUFF

So I tried adding to my old blog, but apparently didn't do a great job at it and ended up with a new blog instead. I don't get it, but apparently I need to go with the flow.

If I could hook up a computer to my mind, I would have blog entries every day, just based on my drive to and from work. Of course, they would have to be heavily edited. The actual act of getting on and blogging goes in the category of "nice idea, never get around to it". I'll try to get around to it a bit more, but no promises.

I did want to make this blog somewhat about adventures in parenting. I won't claim to be an expert by any means, though I did partially raise six siblings and am making a an attempt with my four kids now. Parenting raises so many more questions than answers. So perhaps I will simply reflect on these questions rather than trying to dole out any advice whatsoever, since I'm not sure I'm doing this whole parent thing right anyway.

So here is my reflective question this time: why is it that teenagers are so possesive over their own stuff at home and yet they 1) think nothing of exchanging stuff with all their friends and 2) believe that parent's stuff is free game? I mean, when it comes to my makeup, hair appliances, pillows, personal space...I might as well be living in some sort of household commune. To the teenagers, they live by the adage "What is my parents is also mine". Yet if I so much as LOOK too long at one of their things, you would think I committed a serious crime. "What are you looking at my .... for?" For starters, I'm trying to determine if it is really MINE. Next, I'm trying to figure out where they got it. "Oh, that came from .... (insert name of friend, casual acquaintance, or some poor shlepp off the street), and they let me borrow it." "So can I borrow it...for a millisecond...?" "EWW, NO!" Like I have some mom cooties or something. Geez, I wouldn't want to poison their precious things!

Perhaps it seems a bit strange for a grown woman to be so possesive of her things. I guess it comes from having six siblings. They were always in my stuff. And when a younger brother who shall remain nameless STOLE my lipstick and drew all over the downstairs bathroom in it, guess who got in trouble? Not the brother! Bad enough that they took my stuff...but for me to get in trouble for apparently not hiding it well enough? Not that I'm resentful or anything...

Then there were the laundry bins. Mom did her best when folding clothes to actually put our clothing into our laundry bin. Sometimes, however, you would end up with someone elses socks, underwear, shirts...I wouldn't say that it was because mom was distracted, but she did have that phone right next to the laundry room...these days, I suppose we would call it "multitasking". At least she tried. Problem was, though us girls were generally smart enough to figure out we had the wrong clothes, the boys would take it as "if it is in my box, it must be mine." Some days they would come into devotional with a really funny look on their face like they were in tremendous pain. Sure they were in pain...they were wearing underwear meant for a little brother that was so small on them that they no longer had circulation to their legs. Um...why don't you change? "It was in my BOX!" Right.

I have to admit, I couldn't tell these days which clothing items were whose. I don't know how Mom ever really kept track. Perhaps I could avoid lots of hassle by simply putting all of their stuff in my closet. The kids would be so incensed that I had their things, that they would instantly grab what is theirs and take it back to their room.

I could be on to something here!