Fire has fascinated and terrified me.

As a kid, I remember toasting marshmallows on an open fire, learning to put the marshmallow next to some glowing embers and slowly letting it turn a caramel brown with warm insides instead of sticking the mallow into the flames and burning it to a crisp while the middle stayed hard.

I loved the sound of the log’s crackle and pop, watching in a hypnotic trance as they transformed from muddy brown to scarlet orange.

The smoke smell gets into your hair but you don’t mind because the feeling of comfort overwhelms you as the stars twinkle overhead.

Then there’s the terror of a house fire. I was visiting my grandparents many years ago, and my grandfather was sitting in his usual place near a big picture window that overlooked the street.

Across the street, a house was on fire.

“That thing’s really going up,” I said to him.

“Yes it sure is,” he calmly said, sitting there watching the flames against the dark sky.

A few minutes later, my aunt came rushing into the room.

“Dad, your house is on fire!” she yelled.

He shook his head in agreement and continued to watch the flames get higher and higher.

“You own that house?” I asked him.

He shook his head yes as my aunt continued to pace the room and curse the fire department.

“Why aren’t you more upset?” I asked him.

He shrugged his shoulders and sighed.

“What’re you going to do,” he said, resignation and acceptance in his voice.

Years later, after my grandparents had both passed away, their grand house at the top of the hill burned beyond rescue, the result of some druggies illegally in the house.

But small campfires are cozy and comforting on a cold night. It had been years since I’d sat around a campfire, so I was thrilled when my husband suggested building a small campfire pit in our back yard.

He’d been on a Scout campout and the outing reminded him how much fun youngsters can have around a campfire. He brought home some stones, a few logs and built a small fire ring in our back yard.

The grandchildren were visiting that weekend, and they were thrilled when he said we’d have a campfire and marshmallow roast. The boys from across the street came over, and we pulled some lawn chairs up around the fire.

As the flames danced, one of the boys decided to tell a scary story.

No campfire ghost story is complete without a flashlight held underneath a boy’s chin to illuminate the mental images he’s describing, and this night was no different. Except the “monster” in the story was a giant chicken nugget.

We all had a good laugh about the monster nugget, and then Luke passed the flashlight around the circle until each child had a turn at embellishing the story. While they waited their turn, the kids roasted marshmallows, each finding their favorite sweet spot in the flames.

Sitting outside with loved ones with no electronics, no television and no music reminded me that simple pleasures are always the best.

Movies can be great time distractions, rock music can get your blood flowing and television offers a few laughs.

But we made memories around that campfire, serenaded only by the crackling of the fire and the laughter of children as they used their imaginations to tell tall tales and look for fireflies.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.