Stephen,

When I was a kid in Mississippi, we used to have these unsightly crawdad holes, like little chimneys all over the yard. My Dad would pour a little gasoline down the holes and that would kill the crawdads and you could stomp down the chimney with your foot. Once, left to my own designs, and at about six or seven years old, I noted a new crop of crawdads was busily building their little chimneys in the yard. If a little gasoline was good, five gallons must be better. I poured five gallons of gas down a single crawdad hole. Of course, I knew where Mom kept the kitchen matches and voila.

The result of the match making contact with the top of the crawdad hole was a vertical flamethrower fifteen to twenty feet in the air. Burned all the leaves off the sweetgum tree just overhead and maintained a fairly substantial flame for maybe, as much as, thirty seconds.

My parents had company at the time, but saw the conflagration through the living room picture window. Of course, they knew it was me, again, who was up to one of my experiments. Fortunately, only the heat off the blaze touched me as I gazed wide-eyed and open-mouthed at my creation. Needless, to say Dad and I had a serious talk. I don't recall if I got a whipping, maybe they were just too glad to see I wasn't burnt to a crisp.

Well that's my stupid fire story. Thought you might enjoy our combustible comradeship.

Jim