Circa 1963

As with anyone we all have stories from our childhood that shape our thoughts and actions for the rest of our lives.  Many of these stories are due to an event, tragedy or mistake that happened to us when we were very young. In some cases these stories never die because your friends and family refuse to let them.  They get brought up at family gatherings, year after year, all with a roar of laughter and a new dose of ridicule.  Well, this adventure is one of those fateful “events” you wish you could forget. 

Every summer was filled with camping trips and picnics in the neighboring valleys and mountains.  A favorite spot for our family was the clearing just above Grizzly Reservoir and just below the old mining town of Ruby.  On this particular day our family outing included numerous extended family members as well as good friends. The day was like any – kids playing games and long bouts of “hide and seek,” parents making plans for their next adventures and reminiscing about adventures past.  Adult humor was a staple of these events and it seemed as though no one was missing out on some sort of fun. 

As the day passed on to evening with dinner complete it was time for the bonfire and adult beverages.  For the kids this was the time for long twigs sharpened to a point, sometimes like a multipronged fork, marshmallows, graham crackers and chocolate.  If my memory serves me correctly I was most certainly the youngest in the crowd.  I was always good at standing out, if not overwhelming those around me.  On this occasion I was going to be the subject or object of a cruel trick hosted by none other than the Lord above.  I not so patiently waited my turn to cook up my marshmallow, unaware of the carnage about to ensue.  Cooking the marshmallow was supposed to be easy: put it on the stick, stick it near the hot coals at the base of the flames and rotate it slowly to a nice golden brown.  As often happens, it caught fire and instantly tripled in size. 

As soon as the flames were extinguished, charcoal black, it was ready to eat.  I have never been much of a chocolate eater, so making this into s’mores was not in my plans.  As I reached for the marshmallow to remove it from the stick, still lava hot, I proceeded to drop it on the forest floor.  As the tears welled up in my eyes I went for it; I was going to have my treat one way or another.  Five second rule be damned, it was mine.  I attempted to remove the dirt and pine needles from my treat which only served to spread this sticky delight from one hand to the other.  Not satisfied, I proceeded to get it all over me from head to toe.  I got it on my clothes, my face, even all over the family dog.  As this carnage ensued a crowd developed.  There was not a sympathetic one among them.  By this time even the family car had become a recipient of this sticky madness. I recalled the tale of Br’er Rabbit as I became attached to everything I touched or that touched me, and was not happy feeling as though this was all a bad nightmare.

Covered in dirt, pine needles and marshmallow, the crowd, overwhelmed in laughter, I looked for someone to help me.  The dog tried but that only made matters worse.  Finally to the rescue came my mother and not a moment too soon, in fact about ten minutes too late.  She helped get me cleaned up, changed me into my pajamas and off to bed.  The next day was met with each adult telling their version of the events from the previous night, all the while trying to tell me that they were not laughing at me but with me.  I did not remember laughing the night before so that was little comfort to me.

To this day I am not a fan of marshmallows and avoid them whenever possible.  Gone was the pleasure of “Peeps” at Easter, and hot chocolate was just fine without the addition of those multi-colored delights floating on top.  The mere mention of marshmallows only serves to remind me of that fateful childhood event.