That is the title of a short story by Jack London, and it's also one of my goals this afternoon: a rather unsuccessful goal at the moment as all my attempts so far have gone up in smoke. Haha. Anyway, they've dwindled into literal ashes and I am still freezing cold after having pressure-washed a relatively small area of the concrete outside our house. If you're wondering whether this is an attempt to make you feel sorry for me, you're probably right ... I could do with all the pity that's on offer right now! :D Just kidding. So I need some fire building advice. Jon's much better than I am at making fires, but he's off on a nine mile run right now so that's no help. Ripple and Turko, out in the garage, aren't going to make this any easier either. My father in law says (all the way from California) "It's a matter of progressive sizes of kindling, my dear." That is as maybe, but it still isn't helping me ... and pfffftttt, another try at the fire goes out. Aaaaaggggghhhhh!!!! ... and soon my fingers will be frozen to the keyboard so I won't be able to
Decided to turn the electric heater on instead.
