Great, gnarly chunks of stumps blazed and shed coals into the roaring firepit. Several of us men and our sons sat in a half-moon shape around it. Sometimes the smoke would blow through the opening in our circle and instead of our faces.
My warrior buddy, our host, invited a few fathers and sons to his place for his oldest son’s 12th birthday party. It was an overnight campout. After the Airsoft battles and the archery, we gathered around the fire as night fell, the full moon rose, and coyotes shrieked on the other side of the field.
We told stories. By some unspoken agreement amongst the dads, we told stories with a certain kind of point.
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