One of the best things about my cousin having a blog, aside from pictures and stories of the best second-cousin in the world, is that I get to read stories about myself that I might not necessarily remember, because I was either A) too young or B) don’t have the memory she has.
Today was one of my favorite stories. It’s one of those things that I think I may remember, but I also think it could be because the story gets told on a regular basis. I can’t say my love for all things flaming has faded, but I will say I’m more careful about whose head I may cover in a sweet ball of fire.
From the cousin today: I’ve got to interject right here, because I want to tell you my all-time favorite camping story, but it doesn’t fit anywhere else in my story so I’m going to drop it here. We were on a big family camping trip. My granny had this bouffant hairdo - how she got hair that big in the great outdoors, I have no idea. The Cuz (that’s me) was a wee one who was probably too young to be given a marshmallow on a sharp stick and instructions to stick the whole rig into the campfire, but what the hell did we know? When she pulled that black, flaming marshmallow from the fire, she went looking for someone to remove it for her and plop! The whole mass of flaming goo landed in Granny’s ‘do. I think Jesus’ love was the only thing that protected my granny from the potentially lethal combination of fire and half a jar of Dippity Do.
I really miss our family camping trips that involved my arthritic grandma’s hair catching on fire due to wreckless fire-handling abilities. At least I didn’t try touching the hot marshmallow myself, right?
