More on men: Fire

Fire is male territory. The light of the flame, the crackle, the heat, it all speaks deep to the man, awakening the Cro-Magnon urges within him. Men want to start fires. Ugh-a. We do. Grr.
But the sanitized, emasculated world around us does not give chance for building fire. Turning a dial on the stovetop does not satiate. Igniting a hiss of propane on the gas grill is more gratifying, while lighting a pile of oversoaked charcoal briquets brings cheer.
But the most satisfying of all is starting a wood fire from scratch, a skill unappreciated in the world of accountants, machinists, insurance agents and lawyers where most of us live during the week.
But ah, a skill without which our precious civilization would be nothing.
Have we somehow lost our way?
Unga.
Never.
On Saturday, my friend Rich and I rekindled the lost art once again, lighting a small blaze in a backyard firepit for a another friend's party.
Two former Boy Scouts. We crumpled newspaper. We stacked twigs. We blew and blew and blew on the coals until we nearly passed out, a feat that prompted much ribbing from the assembled.
Let them laugh. They not touch fire. They not fire handlers.
We have power of fire. It is ours. Uhh.