MARY ANN FITZMORRIS

Survivors are in our home

Anyone who doubts the argument that kids act out what they see on television need only visit my house these days. Our property has been transformed into the Australian Outback, and we are “Survivors.” This phenomenon has engulfed our household once a week. My friends are amazed that I, generally so disdainful of the popular culture, have been completely ensnared by the lure of this television program. Beyond watching the show, (and theorizing about when Jerri will get the boot), we have begun to play Survivor, right here after school. My friends would not be amazed that I, who will generally do everything my children tell me to do, faithfully go through all the challenges as directed by my son, Jeff Probst. This kid does not have to wait for Milton Bradley to come up with a $29.99 version of the Outback. All he needs is a box of matches. To my son, all fun begins with a box of matches, but that’s another column. Matches need to light something, and we go through a lot of candles. A few weeks ago, at a going out of business sale, my son inquired about a small pile of tall but broken candles he had noticed on a table. The owner was delighted but puzzled that anyone would want those candles, and happy to be rid of them. We left with an armful. Enough for one day. My boy is a whiz with a wick, so he doubled his stash by cutting them in half and melting the wax. He lit them all at once and suddenly, our very own tribal council was born! This property really is a natural double for the Outback. We don’t have the raging waterfalls, high precipices or crocodiles. But we do have a long walk to a meadow with very high grass, a large pond, big and tall tree stumps set up around a bonfire circle and matches. Lots of matches. In lieu of doing his homework, my son carefully constructed tall torches using branches he had found and all the toilet paper in the house. He then set out a course for some elaborate challenges, some of which actually require me to run a little. It was time to begin. The tribes were small. My daughter selected Kucha and I became Ogakor. The dog was given to me because my lack of interest in running was deemed a handicap. Our family pooch was excited to play but a little confused. I’d put my hands up and shout Ogakor, like they do on television. He thinks that gesture means “Doggie, please jump on me.” The dog is also bemused about my son’s relentless compulsion to light a fire. He watches my son with a look on his face that says, “So, like, what’s with this fire thing?” But he’s getting used to it, because every challenge in our version of Survivor involves the lighting of a candle. We have to keep an eye out for the only team member with a furry moving tail. It has come perilously close to a flame a few times. After going through a contest that involves a little running, a little jumping (ouch!), maybe searching for something, and of course, lighting something, we make our way to tribal council. Not coincidentally, it is always dusk. Our voting stump is at the edge of the pond, so we have to slosh our way to the pen and paper. The hairy member of Ogakor is the only one undeterred by this. The votes are collected in a terra cotta pot my daughter gave up after a fight. My son approaches to announce the results with ceremony that would make Jeff Probst proud…or jealous. I always vote for myself, and I am practically unanimously voted out, but no one lets me leave! Since Survivor is often the subject of the lunch table at school, my son has been talking about our home version of the game. This unique after-school activity has piqued the interest of some class members, so some of the kids are coming over to play it. Maybe now when the tribe has spoken, they’ll send me home.