I grew up a bit of a pyromaniac.

I had a fascination with fire. I was not a chubby little arsonist or anything, I just enjoyed the idea of starting fires (I re-wrote that a bunch of different ways and they all make me sound crazy).

At around 11 years old, I did the most idiotic thing I have ever done… and that is saying something (re: falling through the ice).

I was not alone in my actions, but I take full responsibility for what happened on this summer day in the mid nineties.

The neighborhood that I grew up in is surrounded by trees, fields and a lake. Within these were a series of bike trails that were converted from trails formed by hunters and deer. There seemed to be endless paths and places to explore. Tucked in the woods an old abandoned house existed, that may or may not have been haunted (depends on who you talk to).

I had a core group of friends in the neighborhood that let me tag along with them while we explored and made up stories about what we were doing. Our most frequent story line revolved around living alone in the woods, pretending we were The Boxcar Children.

When do we lose that imagination? Continue reading →