Any parent who's raised children in the last decade is quite familiar with the lovable yellow sea sponge who's inexplicably shaped like a rectangular kitchen sponge.
No matter your cable or satellite package, there's at least one channel almost exclusively devoted to his screwball undersea exploits. While television probably plays a less-than-average role in our household, I must admit that the SpongeBob Revolution has officially taken the Thomsen family by storm. And as obnoxious as the show is, I must admit that I find it hysterically addicting.
The simply-drawn 2D characters and their perky ocean world have a way of sucking you in, instantly hypnotizing you. For the adult, it starts with the casual walk past the TV, then a quick sit-down to catch a punch line. Four hours and 37 episodes later, you're peeling yourself off the couch, wondering where the time went.
While I cringe at time spent watching such brain-numbing programming, SpongeBob's nautical nonsense is sometimes the best cure for the cold-weather blues.
Just when it seemed like it was in its last throes, this indomitable winter dealt us another impeccably timed snow storm, putting a kibosh on my hiking plans and ushering in what was sure to be another SpongeBob weekend.
Luckily, we had recently purchased a portable fire ring and we decided to fill our evening with an equally mesmerizing, but exponentially more satisfying activity.
When the last of the flurries glided to the ground, I rolled up some newspaper and chopped some kindling. Our 10-month old daughter sat in my wife's arms, staring in amazement as the fire crackled to life. She sat still, her big, cartoon-sized eyes laser-focused on the flames -- proving that not even the youngest among us is immune from the magnetism of the campfire.
"Fire and humans have co-evolved like the bonded strands of the DNA molecule," writes author Stephen Pyne in his book "World Fire: The Culture of Fire on Earth." "Fire and humanity have become inseparable and indispensable. Together they have repeatedly remade the earth."
Ever since man learned to create sparks by bashing two rocks together, fire has been his constant companion. He looked to it for warmth, protection and a means for cooking food.
The bonfire is, as combustion historian Ed Semmeroth puts it, the "nucleus for human grouping." The hearth is the center of the home, and the fire pit the heart of the camp. These days, high-end shelters provide efficient warmth and protection, and portable stoves have largely replaced the need to cook over fire. Yet when the sun sets, even high-tech campers forsake their posh RV's and slick stoves and drift toward the timeless fire ring.
No camp is complete without a campfire, and no campfire is complete without campfire stories. Small talk tends to evolve into stories -- mostly of the spooky variety. Storytelling is an art my uncle Ted has knack for. Thanks to his stories, I'll never sleep in the Uinta Mountains without thinking of Hyrum, the grisly old miner that "to this very day" stalks the forests there.
"It was back in the days when they were building the Duchesne Tunnel," he'd tell a group of attentive Boy Scouts, cleverly tying the forthcoming story to a nearby landmark and a verifiable historic event. "Now Hyrum was what they called a 'powder monkey.' Those were the guys who set the explosives." Ted would continue to regale the increasingly uneasy crowd about the jealous foreman, the explosion, and the vengeful monster that still wanders the mountains, dragging his mangled leg. "Scrape...scrape...scrape."
No less essential to the campfire experience is the funny story, the embarrassing story, the faith-promoting rumor, the reminiscent story, and the exchange of useless, yet interesting, facts. Like the atmosphere created by a dark night and glowing embers, timing is key.
The art of the campfire story is not lost on my son, Bridger, who once donned the storyteller's mantle at a father-and-sons outing in the west desert.
He sat quietly, listening to pioneer stories and spiritual thoughts. When the last story ended and he determined that the crowd had grown sufficiently introspective, the then 4-year-old broke the silence.
"I've got one," he announced in a dead serious tone. Heads turned, searching for the origin of the unexpected little voice. "Long, long ago," he started. "Millions of years ago, the world was very different. The earth was ruled by Dinosaurs, the most powerful creatures to ever walk the earth..." The meticulously crafted story was brief, but it put a smile on everybody's face, and the contented boy sat watching the fire, proud as punch of his contribution to the evening's tales.
Campfire yarns are best complemented with campfire food.
While the go-to favorites like marshmallows and hot dogs always satisfy, I've branched out in recent years. Nothing tastes better than a fresh, fire-baked trout or a meat-and-potatoes tinfoil "hobo" dinner. Red Vines are a new classic, and -- odd as it sounds -- marinated green olives have become my preferred fireside snack. Hobo dinners and a fresh-baked yellow cake -- yellow for SpongeBob, of course -- were the courses for last weekend's backyard blaze.
Sometimes the most meaningful adventures take place in your own backyard. As the kids drifted off one by one, we carried them inside and up to bed.
The baby fought sleep with all the strength she could muster, her little mind determined not to miss out on the fun.
The fading fire reminded me of a SpongeBob episode where he and his friend Patrick are sitting around a campfire.
Patrick, a pink starfish, looks perplexed at the fire and asks, "Hey, if we're underwater, how can there be a..." The campfire quickly vanishes. It's hilarious. And I'm sure that episode is on somewhere right now -- playing concurrently on three channels. Ah, thank goodness campfire season is finally here again.
Clint Thomsen is a Stansbury Park resident who grew up climbing mountains, wandering desert paths and exploring Utah's wilds. He may be contacted via his Web site at www.bonnevillemariner.com.
Post a Comment
