Marshmallow

The family journeyed across the lawn from Squaw Two to the Tewksbury Cabin, armed with a bag of marshmallows and the traditional green roasting sticks harvested from Daddy’s secret tree. When faced with the decision to roast or read, I decided we should roast our marshmallows first, then listen to Daddy read Old Yeller aloud, even though the newly built fire hadn’t yet produced sufficient coals for proper roasting. When we were filing out the cabin door to leave, Daddy turned, looked at the fire, “now it’s perfect for marshmallows.” This implicit condemnation of my decision brought me great shame.