By Trina Machacek
here are going to be delicate parts to this little remembrance and group of half stories. I am just forewarning your delicate eyes and ears if you are reading out loud to your friends and family. But! Yes, a nearly off-colored “but.” Not so delicate as you won’t say you know someone or have heard some of these campfire tales along your life’s path.
Trina Machacek
Now then, that’s covered, saving my butt. Leaving only us fun loving campers left, let me help you feel the warmth of a campfire of days gone by. Like when we were kids, the ghost stories were inevitable. As a squirt around the campfire of family, friends or if you were lucky enough to attend a summer camp, it felt like the middle of the night as soon as the fire was lit. Darkness surrounded us with our wide eyes and faces aglow by the campfire. Behind us the night was black as the Ace of Spades, daring us to turn around, just once. I felt like we were in a protected bubble with only our backs surrounding us. Creating a fortress.
There were the burps of course. Caused from the beer, hot dogs and cans and cans of sodas that were consumed after a hard lived day of hiking and fishing and, well, just pure camping. Sometimes the burps would lead to a burp-off. I admit I have never witnessed it, but I heard tell of a guy who knew a guy who could burp the whole alphabet in one long buuuuuuurp. Now that’s a real party trick to have around a campfire. When you are outside, after a plate of potato salad and hot dogs!
Campfire sing-alongs are such grand entertainment. Hearing about John Jacob Jinglehimer Scmidt. How about that one guy who had a hat that had three corners? Not to wax nostalgic, am I alone in knowing the song “Grandma’s In The Cellar”? Baking biscuits with stuff running down her nose that at the end she snifffffs up the secret ingredient that goes in the batter! Oh wait. Maybe that was a drinking song. Speaking of having a rowdy good time…
Lastly let’s touch off the always funny stories I have been enlighten with over the years. Seems that guys, because ladies would never do this. Guys, from little boys, teenagers up to dad aged men and yes, grandpas too, will have at least one camping trip like this one. I heard this one, because I elicit stories in every group I have gotten to be part of, no matter the matter of talk. YIKES! Yes, you may have guessed it already. The talk with a group of men I was lucky enough to be part of, was to talk of lighting farts or here in mixed company, pyro-flatulence. Yes, the gaseous backsides of guys, it seems caught on, (get it?) many moons ago amongst the bigger stronger sex.
Here’s the story I was told. I would bet money the story was cleaned up for my delicate ears, but the jest is just as hysterical. First of all, I knew all five of the guys telling me of their campfire escapade. I still know and see them occasionally. Yes, the story gets bigger and funnier as the years go by.
It happened at a deer camp after a long fun day of hiking, spotting and missing prey. In truth I think they had just enough mischief left in them because they didn’t have to field dress a buck and carry it back to camp. This was way before 4 wheelers and side-by-sides. Back when boots were old and worn and cammo wasn’t even a word yet. So now you know how mature these guys were. The have not changed in all the years that have gone by.
The fun apparently started by accident. Yeah, I didn’t believe it either. After dinner of Beenie Weenies and a few shots of Jack Daniels, one guy was lighting a cigar and dropped a lit match between his legs, just as some gas was escaping from his nether regions. Well, that started the competition. Apparently lighting farts isn’t as easy as you would imagine. It took each man several times of turning back side to the fire, bending over with match lit and at the ready to cause any worthwhile pyro-flatulence. Soon it was discovered if one would let go and another would hold the match there was a better chance of flames. Apparently, you really find out who your friends are if they will stand behind you as you fart so they can light your methane expulsion. Holy Cats Batman.
Of course my lady friends and I will never know. We are the delicate sex after all.
Trina lives in Diamond Valley, north of Eureka, Nevada. She loves to hear from readers. Email her at itybytrina@yahoo.com
