The instructions flittered through the group several weeks before the end of school.

There would be a contest, they said.

The Dads and their children who were in the 7^th and 8^th grades would be in this contest.

The instructions were basic.

The school would supply wood, kindling, matches, and eggs.

Each child and their dad needed to bring something to fry an egg in, and, if they wished, a hatchet or like instrument to chop up the wood.

No paper to help light the fire. 

No lighter fluid.

Just matches, luck, and wood.

Whoever could fry their egg, and eat it first, won.

My sweet daughter and I discussed different options to fry the egg in. 

She was more for the original route of using the skillet her mother used to fry eggs in.

But, her mother didn’t like that idea, thinking the fire would stain her skillet.

I, on the other hand, was thinking of the physics (if there is such a thing) of heat.

I suggested one of those thin disposable aluminum pie plates.  My argument was that if we got a big enough one, we could hold it right down on the fire without burning our hands and the heat would get through that thin aluminum much quicker than through a skillet.

The daughter acquiesced and other than deciding who would crack the egg, who would turn it, etc., our plans were made.

*****

The last day of school dawned brightly.

And breezy. 

I suspicion folks who read this that live down south might have called it windy, but no matter.

Us Dads met at the shop where the wood for the event was stored and took stock of the situation. 

There were nice sized chunks of wood that would take hours to burn down.  These, we pushed aside.

There was kindling, as promised, but it was going to need some pairing down if we were to expect even a prayer of a fire.

We set to work with hatchets, but it was tough going.  We mostly had chopped up pieces of still too big kindling.

My friend Travis had the real deal.  Having spent some time in the D.R., he knew firsthand how to get a fire going with only the bare essentials. 

He cut paper thin slivers and shavings off with his machete, wielding that two-foot knife expertly. 

He cut plenty, and, owing to his generous nature, offered what he didn’t need to the rest of us. 

I’m afraid I took more than my share of them, noticing how the breeze seemed to be picking up.

The time of the contest drew near, and we each staked out our area and set up camp.

The school handed out whole boxes of matches, even two, to some who asked for them. 

I was very worried that if we didn’t get it right, those dry fluffy shavings would go up in smoke and we would be left with the choice of either eating our egg raw (I never heard that it wasn’t an option) or bowing out entirely.

The daughter courageously played her part, cupping her hands right close to the flame I was touching against the little wood pile, risking getting a healthy burn out of the whole deal.

Our brave little flame took off, but the fire was still far too small to do any cooking with, and I could see we were entering the crucial stage where the shavings would be used up, and the larger kindling wouldn’t have caught.

Amazingly, the wind died down at that instant.  I couldn’t believe our good luck.

The kindling took off and we put our egg into the pie pan and spread as thin as we could.  The school board went above and beyond and offered salt and pepper to those who wished for it. 

Our egg was frying along nicely; I didn’t figure we would even have the kindling used up before it was cooked, as long as the wind stayed calm, like it was.

It was about then I looked up, having had my attention riveted to the fire building process thus far.

And I almost forgot to fry the egg.

There, on windward of our cheerful little fire, stood four of my nieces who had traveled out from Mississippi to be with us during the last day of school festivities.

They were crouching low to the ground, and each one had their skirt spread with their hands out to the side as far as it would go.

There was very little wind that made it through the barrier they were providing.

We finished right up and actually won that contest.

I heard later that some of the contestants used two boxes of matches to try to get their fire lit. 

But can you blame them? 

They didn’t have a living windbreak.

And who really won? 

Without Travis, or the sweet daughter, or those lovely nieces of mine, we wouldn’t have even made it to first base.

So, did we win? 

Is any win singular? 

It seems to me that every win out there has had participants who aided the process.

They say more than 400,000 people were involved in putting Neil Armstrong on the moon. 

Did Neil win?

Oh. 

Back to us.

The egg was really gritty, but it tasted okay.