Most of our evenings around the lake in August of 1978 were spent playing two-hour games of Kick the Can in the yard. Midway through the month it became clear to us all that the days were getting shorter.
And with darkness coming progressively earlier, the whole crew of us pre-teen kids decided to move like a herd to the lakefront for a campfire.
It was the perfect night for just staring into the warm flames. I tipped my head back and flipped up the visor of my ball cap to peer at the early evening stars. It was a beehive of energy around that stone-encircled firepit. The girls giggled at some of the jokes that were being told while other kids made s’mores.
Dave liked to poke at the fire with a long and sturdy maple poker. We all liked to see the shower of sparks fly up when the large logs were prodded into the perfect pile of flame and charred wood.
I could feel the cool damp dew as it settled on my back which made the campfire experience all the better that evening.
A short game of Charades broke out between some of the girls, but sputtered out when we all started telling ghost stories. It was the perfect Adirondack night for storytelling.
The only sounds that could be heard as we took turns speaking were the occasional lap of water on the sandy beach and a distant melancholy song of a loon.
Around that fire that night I could see the glowing eyes of my summer friends as they all chimed in with the gory details of some murder or wild animal lurking in the shadows.
Their eyes changed size and shape in time with the stories as they unfolded.
This was my first time telling stories around a camp fire. I felt true happiness inside my soul as I started to change my voice to fit the mood and change the pace of my words to impact the story.
Dave poked the fire as I told my tale. There were several shrieks of “Woooo,” and a great singular shriek from one of the girls.
But other than that I judged the impact of my story by the changing eyes of my audience.
When I finished there was a short moment of silence and everyone peered into the glowing orange and red flames.
Later that night I made my way towards home in the darkness.
After hearing all those scary stories my imagination began to run away from me.
I imagined that the small pools of light under each street lamp were free zones where monsters could not get at me.
I could still smell the campfire smoke on my sweatshirt as I ducked back out into the darkness and made my way to the next street lamp.
