“I don’t know if that’s a
good idea,” Lester answered. “Mom and
Dad always tell us not to play with matches.”
“Listen,” I pleaded, “We’re
not playing. We’re building a
campfire. All cowboys have
campfires. Do you know of any that have
central heating?”
After a little more
encouragement and arm-twisting, Lester gave in to sound reason. “Once we get this fire going, we’ll put that
arm in a sling,” I said.
Finding matches was our next
priority.
“Why don’t we ask your Mom
and Grams for matches?” suggested Lester.
“No,” I answered. “They’re busy canning and wouldn’t want to
waste their time looking for matches.”
Suddenly, I remembered seeing
some matches in the house, in an upstairs bedroom, so I grabbed Lester and
headed for the house. I sensed Lester’s
reluctance as I pulled him along behind me, body rigid, and heels digging into
the ground.
Not wanting to disturb
anyone, I quietly shoved Lester through a back window, and then climbed in
after him. He followed me upstairs and
into a side bedroom. As soon as we had gotten
inside the door, I heard a muffled voice coming from inside a drawer across the
room. It was calling, “Over here…over
here.” Lester and I walked over to the
drawer, opened it, and there were the matches.
“Must be meant for us,” I said rather matter-of-factly.
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