By Eric Christenson
Part I: Matches
When we were kids, there was this one time where we were walking home from school and my backpack was this tiny little thing that could hold maybe a sandwich and probably a book and my brother Carl’s could hold like 15 books and 15 sandwiches. Anyway, one day walking home from school, we found some old cigarette-sized firecrackers on the side of the road, like 6 or 7 of these things all dry and cracked, dusty on the curb. Some were green and some blue, but they were all pretty much striped. I was probably 7 at the time and Carl 9. He picked up all of them and we immediately spun around in our heads trying to figure out a way to light them off without blowing our fingers off — which he’d read about — or having Mom or Dad figure out that there was now some potential that we’d blow our fingers off — which, again, Carl had read about.

