Back when I was about 11, myself and a group of the older kids my mom swore were a bad influence on me, were chasing a ground hog through the woods with sticks. This was in the woods right behind my house. The groundhog ran into it’s burrow under an old dead tree. We naturally decided to start a fire in the hollow base of the tree to smoke him out.
While waiting for the ground hog to run out, of course we started to throw sticks at each other. Naturally, someone got hurt (Barry) who was a big crybaby. He was not really hurt, more like splinters in the fat part of his arm from one of the sticks. Just a little blood seeped out. Regardless, we all had to go home to deal with him crying and being told we scarred him for life.
Many hours later, I awoke to the sounds of firetrucks. Looking out the back windows of my parents house, I saw the huge column of fire coming from the woods. Of course the fire we started smolder on, set the tree on fire and a vigilant citizen of North Huntingdon PA called the local volunteer fire company that promptly put out the fire.
Only years later did I admit to my parents and our next door neighbor, who happened to be the fire chief, my part in that event.