Strike Point

I set my boots on the butcher block right next to a wide, cylindrical tin of heavyweight kitchen matches. Leaving fire-starters hidden away when the morning calls for decisive spark makes no sense. I dug my fingers into the grooved tin lid and wrenched it open with a blunt pop. Inside lay a bundle of red sulfur tips, packed tight as matches in a magazine. I pulled out a single cedar stem, turned it over, and planted my stance before the rough striker pad on the tin's rim. One clean, uncompromising swipe across the sandpaper surface sent a fierce hiss and a bright yellow flare bursting into the air. I let it burn down to an honest ember before blowing it cold.