My father used to have great bonfire parties in October. In the months leading up to them, he would spend loads of time gathering old brush, fallen limbs, and dried leaves to add to the mountain he was assembling in his field. All of his friends looked forward to it, mostly because he was such an excellent host. On this night, his dining room table transformed into a buffet of appetizers, chips and dips. And his porch boasted several galvanized tubs complete with a sea of chilled craft beers just begging to be sampled. His friends, many of whom he had known since childhood, spent the evening mingling about, laughing, and drinking, their faces warm and glowing from the fire, and probably a little from the alcohol, too. When my son was three, he attended his first bonfire party. I took great care in ensuring that I was outfitting him with a true bonfire "look". I bought him bibbed overalls, a thermal shirt, and hiking boots. So many of my dad's friends were going to