The fire

“He’s gotta be a cop.”

“No, he’s a marine.”

“Why would a marine be camping for fun?”

“I don’t know, he’s with his family!”

“No he’s a firefighter. He’s too built to be a cop and his posture definitely doesn’t say marine. Whatever he is he has to know how to make a fire.”

“Okay, then ask him. Our fire is pathetic!”

Haley and I looked at the smoking pile of wood that taunted us from the campground’s tiny metal fire pit. We had been attempting to build a fire for at least an hour, only to have the kindling disappear in a blaze that left the logs as flameless as ever. 

The sun was going down and with it, our hopes of warm baked beans and smores. We had been looking jealously at the hearty campfire just through the trees all the while, but our drive to prove ourselves on our first camping trip of our own held us back from asking for help. 

This didn’t stop us from speculating about the occupation of the father. We had made it a game. His above average fitness level made it less likely that he was a police officer, but we agreed that he was definitely some sort of public service worker. His posture and mannerisms indicated that he was acutely aware of his surroundings, but his genuine smile and gentle care of his son and wife said he was dedicated to serving people.  

After the what seemed like the 100th face full of smoke, we gave in to the call of warm camp food and wandered through the trees to ask for help. We never asked his profession, but when he pulled out a hatchet, we decided he was a fireman.