The kids wiped down the dinning room table as my wife started the dishwasher. I plopped a stack of newspapers on the table where we had finished our family dinner. The kids looked at the stack, curious of what our Sunday afternoon activity might be.

“It’s Battleship Sunday!” I announced. “The rules are simple. We’ll divide into two teams, girls against boys. You’re team will have a half hour to build a battleship and ammunition out of newspaper.”

I grabbed a page from the Tribune and crumpled it into a ball. I stepped into the living room.

“The girls will place their ship on the floor by the couch and the boys’ ship will be closer to the dining room. The first team to flatten the other’s ship will be the winner.”

I mimicked the game by tossing the paper wad as hard as I could where a ship would soon stand. The wad bounced up off of the carpeting and the kids shouted in unison, “Cool!”

I headed back to the dining room table and added, “Build your ship so it doesn’t collapse and make sure you have enough ammo to pelt the other ship. We’ll have two minutes for each battle, and five minutes for minor repairs and gathering more ammo. You’ll have to keep your ship on the water during all repairs.”

Newspapers were yanked from the piles. My wife had little Caitlyn crumple and amass a pile of ammunition, while she and Carolyn designed the ship.

I turned to Chris, “You’re the designer. I’ll make the ammo until you need my help building.”

“Is it better to have a big ship or a small one,” asked Chris.

“The bigger it is, the easier it will be to hit, but the more hits it will take to destroy.”

Chris went to work folding paper, while I tried to pack the crumpled paper tight enough to do real damage.

At the end of the half hour, the girls moved their ship into position. It looked more like a giant newspaper hat than a ship, but it was also narrow enough that our aim would have to be deadly accurate.

Chris placed the boys ship, which looked more like a destroyer with multiple levels, decks and compartments. It was about twice the size of the girls and had a wide base making it virtually impossible to knock over or flatten.

I gave the first signal and the battle ensued. Carolyn tightened her smile into a clenched grin as she whipped the paper wad with full strength. It hit with perfect accuracy and the top level of the boys ship splattered against a nearby chair. The large antenna mast flipped up in the air and landed on the bow of the ship. The girls cheered their first victory.

Chris tossed his ammo, with mine streaking alongside of it. The wads of paper missed the target, flanking on opposite sides of the ship. The ammo bounced off of the couch behind the girls and Caitlyn added it to their stash.

She then tossed her crumpled paper with as much strength as she could muster. It hit the bow of the boy’s ship and shifted its direction by a few degrees, but no damage was sustained.

My wife tossed a curve ball that cut back and scrapped the hull of the ship, denting its structure on the starboard side. Carolyn followed with another pitch and watched her ammo clip the rail and take out the captain’s bridge.

Chris got wise to the girl’s narrow target and shifted as far to his right as possible. He released his ammo and sent it into the port side, denting the ship, but not budging it. I joined him and pelted the port side, but to no avail.

Both ships withstood numerous attacks through the afternoon and the kids’ enthusiasm didn’t wane. Strategies were quickly built and altered, as each situation changed from the outcome of direct hits. The boy’s ship was leveled to the point of looking like a giant canoe, while the girl’s ship, though heavily dented, stood tall.

Chris suddenly got an idea, “Hey dad,” he whispered. “If we keep hitting the seam of their ship, it might break.”

I acknowledge his idea and handed him another wad of ammunition. He tossed it hard, but missed the ship. I gave him another and then gathered up a pile for him. He relentlessly bombarded the seam.

The girls got worried and decided to aim at one spot on the boy’s ship. Two and sometimes three wads of ammo hit their targeted spot at the same time. Suddenly one section of the boy’s ship flattened and the girls cheered. They quickly gathered more ammo and aimed for another section.

“On, three…two…one!” shouted Carolyn. In unison, a barrage of ammo wads slammed into the boy’s ship, flattening another section.

Chris turned to me with concern flooding his face. I gave him a nod and handed him more crumpled paper. He carefully took aim, then released the ammo, sending it soaring right at the base of the ship’s seam. It hit with a pop, springing the ship a few inches into the air, while releasing its fold that was held in place by the side of the ship.

Everyone watched as the ship landed with the seam wide open. Chris grabbed another wad and tossed it directly into the side of the ship, flattening the entire ship into a wrinkled mat. The boy’s won. Everyone laughed and cheered. The girls flopped back onto the couch. Chris and I landed in the chairs.

The game was over and everyone felt great after experiencing another family adventure.

Copyright © 2013 by CJ Powers
Photo © aleksangel – Fotolia.com

The summer noontime sun pounded down on my dad, as he wiggled the new streamer handles onto my shiny red tricycle. I was overjoyed with how my trike looked, as the colorful streamers fluttered in the breeze. I couldn’t wait to get peddling down the sidewalk.

“Ok, that does it,” said my dad, as he stood up and admired his work. “Be careful, these streamers will make your tricycle really fast.”

Awe struck my face, wondering if my tricycle might be as fast as my dad’s three-wheeler police motorcycle. I watched him put on his helmet, mount his three-wheeler, and rev the engine. He headed down the street and around the corner – Probably speeding to someone’s safety.

It was time for me to conduct a speed test with my super fast streamers. I started easy, peddling slow to gradually get accustomed to the new speeds. I hadn’t realized the wind had picked up and was at my back, but I did notice that my tricycle was getting faster, just like my dad said.

Thunder rumbled in the distance and I looked up at the dark sky. A storm was approaching and fear pelted my insides. I suddenly realized that I was getting too far from home and my streamers were now whipping in the breeze. The sidewalk underneath my trike raced by. My nerves got the best of me.

I took my feet off the peddles in hopes that my trike would slow down, but my fast streamers pushed me forward at a greater speed, as if I was being pushed by a strong gust of wind. Not being able to slow down, I turned my handlebars to circle around, but the speed was so great my trike flipped and tossed me onto the concrete. My legs and arms were scraped raw in the fall.

The sky turned a dark pea green and an eerie calm brought an end to the wind. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I looked at my house and watched the porch screen door bang open. My mom leaned out the door and shouted, “Hurry! Get inside now!”

I quickly mounted my tricycle and started peddling. I knew the fast streamers would get me back quickly. I peddled as fast as I could, but suddenly felt a blast of wind from my back propelling me even faster. My feet slipped off the pedals and I lost control of the trike.

I steered toward the stone driveway and cut around a large tree. The uneven ground tipped the trike, tumbling me onto the gravel. Pain soared through every inch of my small frame. When I stopped rolling, I looked up into the dark green sky and saw the clouds circle. A long tail started to drop down from the sky and I could barely hear my mom’s cry, “Leave your tricycle! Get inside!”

Fear flooded my heart as my mom struggled to keep the screen door open. I ran toward the porch, but my shoe clipped the sidewalk and I crashed into the steps. I was pulled up into the porch by the collar of my shirt. Mom raced me down into the basement and slammed the door, but I could hardly hear it close over the din of what sounded like a rushing train over our house.

A couple hours later, I stood in the driveway looking at my trike. It was trapped under a large fallen branch. One of the fast streamers was torn from the handle and mangled in another branch several feet away. The other one was still attached, but crushed. My mom tried to comfort me with the suggestion of shopping for new streamers, but I didn’t want anything to do with it.

I was no longer interested in a fast trike. I was determined to wait until I was much older before trying fast streamers again. My mom didn’t understand my response about speed, but she thought a piece of watermelon might help take the edge off of our storm experience. I happily headed inside.

Copyright © 2013 by CJ Powers

It was a beautiful summer afternoon and I headed out back to play hoops. I was startled to see three men wearing electrical hard hats and using a big machine to cut a trench in our backyard. I moved quickly to the men and called out to the foreman. He signaled the shutdown of the machine and moved next to me.

“Can I help you with something, son?”

“You’re not supposed to be digging in our yard.”

The foreman glanced through papers on his clipboard and then looked me square in the eyes, “My work orders say we are to dig a trench from your back fence all the way down to your front street.”

I remembered a similar topic my mom and dad discussed after dinner earlier in the week. They had a request from the electrical company to cut a trench in our yard and lay electrical cables to the main line. This would allow electrical poles across the backyards to be replaced with underground wiring.

My parents wanted to sell the electric company a right-of-way for their cable. They also insisted on receiving additional money to pay for replacement sod and other landscaping to cover the ugly trench, but the electrical company suggested there were other ways to lay the cable without my parent’s permission.

“My parents didn’t give you permission to dig on our land,” I stated boldly. “You are trespassing and need to leave.”

The foreman signaled his workers to give us some space. They headed over to the back fence and waited. Then the foreman faced me straight on, “I have to get my work done and can’t stop because a minor’s comments don’t match my paperwork. Maybe you should double check with your dad when he gets home from work.”

The foreman grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the equipment. He signaled his men to continue. One of the men started up the equipment and lowered the cutting arm down into the trench. Dirt churned and spilled out of the trench as the machine slowly moved toward the house.

I broke the foreman’s grip from my arm and tried to step away, but he grabbed me again.

“I can’t have you getting too close to the equipment. We wouldn’t want you hurt.”

“I’m headed inside.”

I yanked my arm free and ran to the back steps. I shot up to the back porch using every third step and headed in doors. The three men continued to work and cut an additional twenty feet of trench, while I was inside.

My dad had just woken up, having worked the nightshift. He was in the middle of swishing mouthwash around when I poked my head in the bathroom and shared the dilemma.

My dad commented, “I’ll be out in a moment. Maybe you can get them to stop, while I’m getting ready.”

I bolted out of the room and headed downstairs with a purpose in my step. My feet swiftly cut across the carpet in the foyer, living room and dining room. I picked up my pace as my feet hit the kitchen, followed by my hands shoving the back door open.

The screen door banged against the house and then bounced closed. I grabbed both railings and slid down without touching a single step. Both of my feet hit the sidewalk simultaneously. I strutted out into the backyard.

The foreman saw my vigorous pace and signaled the workers to take a break. I moved next to him and spoke with authority.

“My dad says that you are not to be digging in our yard and need to leave.”

“You called your dad at work?” he asked. “How long until he gets home?”

The look on the man’s face told me that he would continue digging with hopes of finishing before my dad showed up, but before I could tell him that my dad was home, the back door opened.

I was a little embarrassed by the sight of my dad standing on the back porch in a robe and slippers. His stark white legs glowed as he walked across the backyard. One of the men nudged the other and chuckled. The foreman moved over to chat with my dad a few steps away from everyone else. It didn’t take long for the conversation to get heated and loud enough for all of us to hear.

“I don’t care what your orders say, get off of my property.”

“The only way I’m sending my team home is if the police show up and tell us to leave.

A sudden calm came over my dad’s face. He turned around and headed back into the house.

“Guys, let’s get digging,” the foreman shouted. “If he’s calling the cops, we’ve got to get the trench dug before they show up.”

The machine was started and the arm ripped deep into the trench. Within seconds the machine was tearing up more ground and headed toward the front street. I watched the foreman look glibly at me, as if my family had been defeated. I wondered why my dad walked away.

Suddenly the foreman’s mouth dropped open wide. He quickly signaled the workers to kill the machine and join him. They all turned pale as they watched my dad, now in his police uniform, walk toward them. The foreman noticed his sergeant stripes and looked like he was about to pee in his pants.

My dad stood tall before the three men, “I am ordering you and your men to stop working. You have exactly 20 minutes to remove all your equipment from this premises or you will be arrested for trespassing and for disobeying a police officer’s instructions.”

The men immediately broke down their equipment and made it ready for transport. The foreman sheepishly stepped up to my dad and tried to suggest there was a mistake in his records and would see to it they were fixed. My dad paid little attention to him and headed into the garage.

When dad pulled out of the driveway the foreman turned to me and asked, “Hey kid, where’s your dad going?”

“To pick up his police car so he can come back and arrest you.”

“That won’t be necessary. We’ll be gone in just a few minutes.”

I grabbed my basketball and shot layups, while glancing every so often to see their progress. They were gone within fifteen minutes with no desire to return. My dad did his part to make sure they didn’t return by having police cars patrol the area a couple times every hour until he came home for supper.

The next day the foreman’s supervisor sat down in the living room with my dad and apologized on behalf of the company. The workers never returned and my family was compensated so we could repair the landscaping.

Copyright © 2013 by CJ Powers

Photo © kennykiernan – Fotolia.com