The Smurf That Time Forgot

Sometimes a story doesn’t need a moral. It doesn’t have to be about leadership, perseverance, or growth. It can just be a reminder that life is full of strange, delightful moments that make you smile — and maybe remember who you used to be.

I am Gen X to the core. I remember exactly where I was when The Smurfs first aired in 1981. I was eight years old (yes, you now know how old I am), and Saturday mornings were for cereal and cartoons, as opposed to coffee and contemplation.

Like every other kid my age, I quickly fell headfirst into the blue blur of The Smurfs. The toys, the figurines, the little mushroom houses — my sister and I had so many of them. Handy, Vanity, Papa Smurf, Smurfette, Brainy… and then the more specialized ones: Hockey Player Smurf, Football Smurf, Baseball Smurf. (You get the idea — I played sports)

We used to play with them for hours in our parents’ garden, creating entire Smurf villages among the marigolds and rhododendrons. It was peak childhood imagination — and, apparently, one of those Smurfs didn’t make it out alive. But we had so many...we didn't really notice.

Fast forward to 1996. I’d moved out to Steamboat Springs, Colorado, living the mountain dream. Back in Buffalo, my parents were renovating the house — adding a new master bedroom, a big front porch where that garden used to be, and cutting down a massive elm tree in the backyard.

Now, if you grew up in suburban Buffalo, you know these old elm trees were like enormous weeds. Their roots invaded the pipes, the driveway, everything. When the tree came down, they filled the hole in the backyard with dirt from the old front garden.

A few days later, my dad was mowing the lawn when he spotted something strange sticking up out of the ground. He stopped, bent down, and picked it up.

It was a Smurf.

A Smurf that had been buried in the front garden for over 15 years. And not just any Smurf

— Axe Smurf.

I swear to you, I am not making this up. Of all the Smurfs that could have been buried, this was the one to reappear — standing upright, as if he’d just chopped his way through a solid foot of dirt and decided to see what was going on.

Could a Smurf cut down a tree? In my mind, he did.

I still have that Smurf today. He sits on a shelf, a tiny blue time capsule from childhood and proof that sometimes the best stories don’t need a moral.

No leadership lesson. No metaphor about perseverance or growth. Just a little blue guy who refused to stay buried.