The last day of my end-of-summer camping trip with the boys ended with a campfire. We hadn’t been able to have one on the previous nights because of rain, so it was very much anticipated. The boys built it with me offering tips and suggestions, and it ended up being pretty impressive, with flames reaching about three feet high.

My youngest son wasn’t satisfied.  “Could you make it bigger?”

“Nah,” I said, rotating my marshmallow so it wouldn’t burn. “It’s big enough.”

“But it could be bigger.”

“We’ll run out of wood,” I said. “Besides, it’s almost as tall as you are.”

“Be cooler if it was bigger,” he said.

My marshmallow burst into flames. “It’s fine.”  I said.

“You burnt your marshmallow.”

“Yeah.” I blew out the flames, rotating it so that its other side would be browned at least a little bit.

“Did Aunt Helene used to make the fires when you went camping?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“I bet she could make a bigger fire.”

Sheesh.