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There have been thousands of days when I did not set a fire that raged out of control. Pretty responsible behavior, huh? As for the few minor exceptions, let’s keep those in the proper perspective. That corncrib was so old and dried-out that we can’t be sure the sparks from my bonfire started it smoking. The glint off a passing airplane could have set it off, or an unusually warm bird might have perched on the roof. The poor old building might have gotten so weary of standing there, decade after decade, that it lost all hope and committed spontaneous combustion.

It survived, and I think the charred wood shingles add to its character. So if you’re looking for a quaint weekend getaway spot, give us a call.

As for the grass fire, come on. The stuff just grows right back, so what’s the big deal? And it automatically stopped when it ran out of fuel, another example of God’s wisdom in placing gravel roads at one-mile intervals across his favorite state.

Anyway, you know the old saying: If your horse bursts into flames, you have to jump right back into the saddle. So if the government ever slaps a total ban on open burning, I plan to apply for a waiver. On the basis that, even though I’m now legally required to carry a Class A fire extinguisher whenever I go outdoors, even if it’s raining, bonfires are part of my cultural heritage.

Some people devote their spare time to sports or politics. In rural Iowa, we cling bitterly to dry sticks and matches.

If you ever move to the country, you’ll find yourself gathering leaves and twigs into small piles and igniting them. It’s instinctive, like the steady migration of insurance executives to Greater Des Moines, and there’s something deeper, too. It’s akin to a religious ritual, except with no organ music and very little discussion of Leviticus.

Anthropologists might say this affinity for fire is a result of eons of human inhabitation of the northern latitudes. You have to stay warm. You have to cook food. You have to keep your area cleaned up and tidy, because Northern European-descended people like my late mother believe “people don’t judge you by what you do; they judge you by what you don’t do.”

So in rural Iowa, no one gives it a second thought when somebody torches a pile of brush or sets a hundred yards of ditch ablaze.

Then, this spring, the professionals took over. Towering clouds of black smoke became a regular feature across the countryside, marking the spots where The Man was stealing my way of life.

The government felt the urge to burn big swaths of Conservation Reserve Program grassland, and its highhanded rules required landowners to pay trained professionals to have the fun. (Professionals who let the fire get away from them more than once. I have pictures.)

We all can predict the next step. As with lotteries, tax collection and international diplomacy, fire will be taken from the grasp of ordinary citizens. A black helicopter will descend from the sky, federal agents will commandeer my stash of Jorgensen Insurance Agency matchbooks, and that will be the end of that.

I don’t object to bans on open burning in towns and cities. Those sophisticates don’t need the entertainment; they can always go to a movie or attend a planning and zoning meeting. Out in the lawless tribal areas, it’s either set something on fire or grease some zerks.

OK, there are plenty of other outdoors tasks to occupy my time, because Mother Nature is a bit of a slob in addition to being kind of bossy. But I’ll miss going out on a Saturday morning or after supper when the wind has died down, and transforming matter into heat and light. It’s quite relaxing.

For me, anyway. Not so much for the fire department.