A few months ago, you may recall, I was rationalizing walking my grandsons to school. I tried to make the point that it was both time and exercise from which both the boys and I could benefit. Well, this week those chickens came home to roost. I got the call.
“Need some summer escape time,” the daughters announced.
“And?”
“And the boys are yours for a day!”
Fair enough. Four boys, two pairs of brothers, close cousins, ranging in age from five to nine. So, I began to plan my day with the boys. I figured some activity with a destination, something that included some healthy, physical competition, and, if I could find them along the way, a few rewards and/or surprises to keep things interesting.
Oh yes, and if the opportunity presented itself, I’d keep an eye out for any teaching moments. (I could almost see my daughters’ eyes roll on that one. They’re both accustomed to moments I chose to tell stories. To which they often protested: “Dad, tell us the time! Don’t build us a watch!)
The first item on the itinerary: A walk to the offices of the Cosmos newspaper, our hometown newspaper that’s published this column for a decade. Why? Well, it would give me time to assess who was up, who was down, and who needed a bit more TLC than the rest.
Half-way there – as the boys all dashed, skipped and pushed each other playfully along the sidewalk downtown – a nice pause at Wynn Walters’ sculpture of Col. Sam Sharpe. Naturally, the boys wanted to scale the statue. “OK, OK, but a little respect, please.” So, I let them do their playground climbing, but asked them to check out the letter in Sam’s hand. “Anybody guess what that’s about?” And we all settled around Sam to talk about the man behind the uniform – brave but saddened, faraway but connected to home, injured invisibly.
“Can we take a copy?” one of the boys asked at the Cosmos office. “For free?”
“Yup!” And I invited them to sit on the bench outside the office. “You read and I’ll do a selfie.” I took several shots, but one photo caught each of them exhibiting – in his unique way – what having his own newspaper meant. One hammed it up from head to toe. Another did a funny face. The third peered curiously over the paper at me. And the fourth actually buried his nose into it trying to read the news stories.
A pit stop back at the house and it was off to the basketball court behind the arena for a little shoot-around. Knowing that their athletic abilities varied as much as their personalities reading a newspaper, I began by dribbling, shooting and passing – trying to set an example of team-play – all the while imitating a play-by-play announcer describing the action.
I wanted everybody to have his fair turn at shooting. But it didn’t work; my form of equal time – enforced democracy – failed abysmally. And before long everybody was arguing, pushing and whining he wasn’t getting enough time with the ball.
“OK, time for the splash pad!” I announced.
For the next hour or 90 minutes, the four of them dashed madly from one splash-pad fixture to the next. When the water cascaded from the Moose, it was “Moose tag!” When a cone of water sprayed a shell-shaped wall down over top of them, they announced they were inside “The Force Field!” And when the buckets toppled sheets of water down on their circle below, all four of the boys laughed hysterically. I didn’t have to move a finger through the hottest part of the afternoon.
(You know, I’ve never really thanked the local Bonner Boys team charity enough for the fabulous summertime water playground they donated to the town. Guys, you saved my ass!)
Then, it was back to the basketball court. Only this time I stayed out of it. On their own, they decided it was a brothers-against-brothers game. And even though the results were horribly lopsided, it worked because they organized the game, not me; they made up the rules not me or the NBA; and they faced their own victories and defeats.
The teaching moment of the afternoon was one for me, not them. When left to their devices at play, they managed just fine. By the time we reached home, still soaking wet, but now worn out and hungry, I was thankful for their grandmother. Like cavalry to the rescue, she brought on the pizza and mango juice until everyone was fully fed and watered.
My day entertaining (a.k.a. distracting) the boys had gone reasonably well. I’d even learned a few things. And wasn’t it great that they’d relished the idea of taking home their own free copy of our town newspaper!
No matter that by the end of the day, each boy had rolled his Cosmos into a sword shape for gladiator combat in our backyard. Another teaching moment for granddads and journalists who take themselves too seriously.