What a childhood moment at Flaming Geyser taught me about ordinary life and extraordinary stories

“Do you think it’s gonna blow?” I asked my dad, ten years old, watching the flame rising from the rocky earth at Flaming Geyser State Park near Auburn, Washington.

He adjusted the strap of his Canon AE-1 — the same camera he carried on every hiking trip — and smiled down at me.

“Like Old Faithful?” he asked.

I nodded. The air smelled like damp trees and minerals. The geyser hissed quietly.

“Well… it’s bubbling,” he said. “Maybe we just need to wait and see.”

That moment taught me something I didn’t realize until years later: We’re all walking around with stories just below the surface. Waiting for the right moment. The right person. The right reason to finally erupt. <!–more–>

The Lie We Tell Ourselves About Ordinary Lives

You may think your life’s not interesting enough to be told. No dramatic plot twist. No exotic passport stamps. Just… regular stuff.

But that’s the lie.

Ordinary doesn’t mean forgettable. It means relatable. It means real. Your story holds power precisely because it’s yours — shaped by your lens, your moments, your quiet victories and subtle growth.

“Your story — even if it seems ‘plain vanilla’ — is a mirror for someone else.”

When Childhood Looked Like a Rerun

Homework. Streetlights. One episode of The A-Team. Repeat.

It wasn’t flashy, but rich in the unnoticed moments that now shape how I see the world.

My dad worked with a slide projector, telling stories with light and voiceovers. I told mine with action figures, treehouses, and my little brother James crawling after me like a loyal sidekick.

We’d hide under the dining table and call it a spaceship. I’d narrate entire missions. James would nod seriously and say, “Okay, Captain.”

We weren’t trying to become storytellers. We were just living scenes we didn’t know would become stories.

The Day Reading Changed Everything

The moment I learned to read, it was like someone handed me a passport.

Suddenly I could visit someone else’s world, returning home with new tools to build my own.

Some books amazed me. Some flopped. But all of them shaped how I think, how I imagine, and how I connect.

The best stories didn’t use fancy words. They just used true ones.

What English Class Taught Me (and What It Didn’t)

Mrs. Janet Henke was my 8th grade English teacher, the kind of teacher whose voice you can still hear decades later.

I don’t remember everything she said, but certain lines have stuck. Maybe I’m remembering them wrong. Maybe I’m remembering them exactly right. Either way, they shaped me.

She’d say things like:

“Words have weight. Use them like they mean something.”

“Don’t just write what happened. Write what mattered.”

“If it sounds clever but no one understands it — it’s not that clever.”

And I believed her. Or at least, I believed the version of her I still carry around.

She made grammar feel like a toolbox, not a punishment. She taught me how paragraphs flow, how transitions work, how to build a sentence like a bridge. But more than that, she made it clear: writing wasn’t about showing off — it was about showing up.

Still, life taught me the lesson even Mrs. Henke couldn’t quite diagram on a chalkboard:

If you can speak to the right person at the right time in the right way? You’re a storyteller.

Doesn’t matter if it’s slides, poems, text messages, or campfire chats. The method doesn’t matter as much as the moment.

Just look at The Princess Bride. Not perfect. But unforgettable. Because everything serves the heart of the story.

You Don’t Need a Degree in Storytelling

If writing scares you, start with this:

Find someone who can help shape your thoughts. Someone who listens well, who knows how to ask the right follow-up questions.

Because storytelling isn’t about spotlighting yourself. It’s about offering something meaningful to someone else.

And if someone helps you share your story? That’s generosity. Not ego.

Your Story Isn’t Small. It’s Specific.

Here’s what I know:

Your story, even if it seems “plain vanilla” is a mirror for someone else. What seems small to you might be life-giving to the person who’s quietly wrestling with the same thing.

A terrible Tuesday. A job you hated but stayed in. A word someone said that still echoes years later.

That’s how real stories work. They’re built from crumbs that feel like meals once we share them.

The Real Goal Isn’t Bigger Stories. It’s Braver Ones.

You don’t need to make your life more exciting. You need to see your life for what it already is: honest, lived, worthy.

The courage isn’t in the adventure. It’s in the telling.

So let me ask you:

What moment keeps whispering to you lately?

Write it down. Tell a friend. Say it out loud at the dinner table.

Because it could be THE MOMENT.

“Do you think it’s gonna blow?” I asked my dad, ten years old, standing near the quiet trails of Flaming Geyser.

He raised the Canon AE-1 to his eye and looked through the viewfinder like he always did.

“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe we just need to wait and see.”

Your story’s waiting. And the world is too.

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Start Your Story Today

What everyday moment from your life has been quietly asking to be told? I’d love to hear about it in the comments below — and I promise to respond to every thoughtful share.

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About Joe Class III: Joe is a storyteller who believes every ordinary moment holds extraordinary meaning. He helps individuals and organizations discover the stories worth telling in their own lives and work. When he’s not writing, you can find him exploring Pacific Northwest trails with his camera, just like his dad taught him.

Connect with Joe:

• Follow on Medium: @joe_class_3
• Connect on LinkedIn: Joe Class III
• Email: joe3@fiveminuteobservations.com