Campfires and Connection: The Power of Storytelling
Turn off the news and talk to each other.
“Tell me about when you were my age,” pleads my five-year-old granddaughter. “What games did you play?”
“Well, my sisters and I played lots of board games, and we played freeze tag and softball.”
“No, not those kinds of games! What was your favorite video game?”
“We didn’t have video games back then,” I try to explain.
“Why not?” “They hadn’t been invented then.” “Why not?”
And so another story begins.
Children make sense of their world through stories.
Stories put the life they know into context. Or at least they should.
Before humans wrote words, they told stories. Some of the earliest artifacts of human culture illustrate our storytelling nature.
I’ve always imagined that people drew cave paintings in the Chauvet cave in France to illustrate stories as they told in long winter’s nights. They are thought to be the oldest representation of storytelling, dating to 32,000–30,000 years ago.
Egyptian hieroglyphics from around 700 B.C.combine pictographs and sounds to explain and preserve scenes of hunting and life and death, perhaps so stories wouldn’t be forgotten.
I’ve been worrying about the children.
Are the adults in their lives taking the time to tell them stories?
Stories can help make sense of the threat of viruses and explain why they can’t play with their friends. When I share a time when I felt sad and lonely, it can give them hope.
Oral storytelling was part of human history long before written language became common. Stories and epic songs were used to pass history from one generation to another. I imagine the tellers may have embellished the story at times, but at least they were remembered.
We need to find time for storytelling in our modern lives. It serves to connect generations with a shared history.
I yearn for the stories I’ll never hear.
I never knew my grandparents, and my father shared few details of his life before we six kids became part of his life. He died about the time I became curious to know why he was the man that he was. Now it’s too late to find out and I mourn the loss.
Have you been fortunate enough to spend time around a campfire? The mesmerizing flames capture our vision and encourage the sharing of stories. Indeed, I’ve often seen shapes dancing above the coals, inspiring my stories, and restoring forgotten memories.
I was lucky to grow up homesteading in Alaska. Well-remembered meals of corned beef hash and Dinty Moore beef stew were warmed above open flames. Our early water supply was snow melted over a fire. Long summer nights were punctuated by scorched marshmallows and hotdogs but my dad never had time to join us kids.
All through my life, I’ve loved campfires.
Bonfires in west Texas, camping in the mountains of New Mexico, fires to warm my hands after washing carrots outdoors on our cold January farm; each fire holds memories.
Secrets have been shared while looking not at each other but into the anonymity of the flames.
Somehow that makes it easier to tell a story, I’ve found. Add some hot cocoa or a cold beer, and stories and songs will likely follow.
I know that you may be in an apartment with not a campfire in sight. Or in the suburbs where a visible flame would result in a 911 call. As a lifelong lover of bonfires, I haven’t sat around one in nearly a year myself.
Open fires touch a primordial hunger inside.
A bonfire is nice but not essential. What is necessary is to turn off all the screens and spend time with the family and friends we love.
I’ve had the same experiences perched on a fire escape in the city and driving cross country with more than enough time for endless conversations. The setting is not as important as just slowing down long enough to breathe.
Summer is meant for making memories.
Don’t let the strange circumstances of this year get in the way.
Think about how you can make time for telling stories with the people you care about — especially if you’re lucky enough to share your life with children.
Trust me, you won’t regret it.