It was an absolutely beautiful fall day. The hollow behind our church and down the trail, was ablaze with brilliant colors: Reds and oranges and yellows.
I had followed the trail down to the creek below, but always with my father or one of my sisters. This time, it was just my friend George and I, poised at the top of the trail. Both of us were eight years old and had been told never to go down the trail alone. But we weren’t alone, we had each other, and the trail, under the canopy of all those pretty leaves, was calling us.
George and I were the best of friends, drawn to one another by a common enemy: all the bigger kids in the neighborhood. We have been harassed, sat upon, and chased out of all those good games played across our neighborhood.
We were youngest and smallest kids around and we spent our time together, often plotting ways to get even, to get our revenge. These secret planning sessions were often played out under the large bushes in his backyard or in his bedroom.
On this day, we had been chased out of the games and across the street to his house, where we hid in the bushes. We were in a state of rebellion, and decided it was time to do something bold, something those bad kids would think we could not do. Our plan: venture down the hollow. So, we made our way back to the church and on to the top of the trail.
Now, we were not sure about this venture of ours. Here the trail was open and in clear view, but just below, where it curved out of sight, it was dark and now we weren’t so sure. We looked at one another, had some doubts, but the memory of being chased away from all that neighborhood fun, was still fresh in our minds. So, together, we started down the trail.
At the point where the trail curved, we stopped. Had we gone far enough? Should we go back? From where we stood, the trail looked steep and dangerous. What to do? Go on or go back? We were undecided, until George pointed to something just off the trail. A large tree branch had fallen, creating a little hide away, perfect for two little boys on a rebellious venture.
We gathered other branches and before long we had this wondrous, secret hiding place. We crawled inside and sat admiring what we had created. With smiles and childish bravado, we told stories and marveled that the bad kids could never find us here.
After a while, George had an idea. From his pocket, he took out two kitchen matches. A camp fire, that is just what we needed. Quickly we created a pile of small branches and some leaves to get the fire going. He handed me one of the matches, and together we lit our little fire. We were surprised how easily the camp fire came to life.
For a moment, we admired what we had done. But, then, we realized that it wasn’t just the camp fire that burned, our hide away was on fire! We didn’t know what to do, but we knew we had to get out of our shelter, and fast!
We headed up the trail, and watched for a moment as the fire started to spread across the hillside. Then, in fear, we ran up the trail, and raced for our homes. Without a word, George dashed in his house, slamming the door. I bounded across the street, rushed in our front door and up the stairs to my bedroom, my heart beating like crazy. I kicked off my shoes and crawled into bed, sobbing about what we had done. Waiting, with fear, for the police to come, arrest me, and take me to prison!
In what seemed like forever, my mother called, in a voice I will never forget, “Stanley, get down here, now!”
I inched my way down the hall, to the stairs, taking one slow step at a time. At the landing, I turned and could see the blue uniform of the man that had come to take me to prison! Tears came, and I quietly sob my way down the remaining steps, until I stood, with my head bowed, before the man in uniform.
My mother’s stern voice informed me that this was the Fire Chief. What happened next, is just a blur. Except, that I was never so happy to be punished in my own home, relieved that I was not going to prison.
It was later that I found out that the hillside below our church had burned. The Steubenville Fire Department worked hard to keep the fire contained to one small area.
George and I were forbidden to play together for a week. Later, we compared stories about the visit from the Fire Chief. His punishment had been worse than mine, but we were both relieved that we would not have a police record.
Something surprising happened, two weeks after the fire. All those kids, who tortured us for so long, and chased us away from their games, wanted to hear all about our adventure and how we escaped the raging fire without getting burned up. And why we did not end up in prison.
Somehow, they got the idea that we intentionally had set the hillside on fire. Neither George nor I corrected their thinking. From that point on, they treated us like we had done something amazing, kind like heroes, and we were included in their games.
Two little boys, two matches. What could go wrong?
The End
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