Paintball

“So, daddy, do you think you maybe shouldn’t have gone to play with those kids?” My son asked, in a tone I’m sure his mother had been teaching him the previous five hours. The subject was raised by the state of my pants and my limp as we walked across the parking lot from the ice cream shop.

It had started very innocently four weeks ago. One of the kids (anyone closer to my son’s age than mine I guess is categorized as a kid now. I’m not sure when that happened. When your own son thinks a twenty-one year-old is a kid compared to you, it’s probably best not to think too hard about it. Instead, I added a few more pictures to the photo album I will show his first girlfriend.) invited me to play paintball. He and his friends were going for his twenty-first birthday.

Now, you might be thinking someone of my advanced age would be too old to play paintball. If so, you don’t need to tell me. My wife did, her mother did and so did several friends. I think I even got some spam about being too old, but I don’t read so well without my bifocals now. Another point that was raised is the well-publicized fact that it hurts when those little balls hit you.

When you’ve been hit in the crotch by a thirty-five pound missile yelling, “Daddy!” when she sees you, a paint ball doesn’t seem so intimidating. Add in two consecutive kids with springs in their legs and impeccable timing. You’d think I’d catch on the first time my son bounced straight up into my chin; or my nose, or my mouth, or my eye.

So, even with all the well-intentioned bashing of my failing health do to my age, I thought it’d be fun and asked my wife if I could go out and play with the other kids. With permission in hand, I RSVPed.

Being the senior citizen among this group, and twice the age of the guest of honor, I’ve started to feel my age. Maybe my step has a little less pep now than it did ten years ago. But damn it, I am not old. (It’s true, if you repeat a lie enough times you start to believe it.)

I put my orthopedic shoes on, trimmed my beard so the gray wasn’t as noticeable and got dressed for a fun afternoon of paintball last Sunday. I left the house with my travel mug of coffee. (I know it wasn’t that long ago that I had the conversation with my wife. “Why do your parents and my dad always have to have coffee when they go anywhere. If it’s midnight, we have to wait for them to find their travel mug, (always look in the car first) fill it, then creep out to the car." They never drank it, but they had to have it.)

Before I go any further, I should say there was one person that was supportive of my endeavor. My wife’s brother remarked that I should do well, since paintball requires cunning. I’m sure he didn’t mean that since I was old, it was a good thing I still had some of my senses left and would hopefully use them instead of trying to keep up with the kids.

There’s a paintball place right next to our house. It’s a huge building and there’s a field (notice the word field. Meaning, flat, open space, often with the complete absence of hills of any kind) right next to it. This is what I expected. I didn’t expect the overgrown trail that led into the Western Pennsylvania Jungle.

We were armed and given a bag of paint balls. After I picked up the ones I dropped, (Ok, you try and pour a stream of marbles into a small hole when your fingers are cold) I got loaded up and we were off. The course was, for lack of a better word, vertical. I’m pretty sure I saw mountain goats laughing at us as our team followed the path to our fort.

The objective was simple. Find the other team’s fort, capture their flag and bring it back to our fort. Whoever accomplished this; won. Then I realized what I’d gotten myself into. Someone actually asked, “Who wants to charge the other fort?”

Believe it or not, several people volunteered. I wasn’t one of them. I was looking for a comfortable place to sit, where I could watch and shoot the other team. The ideal place would have a table and a cup of coffee.

Our team won the first game. Our chargers had them pinned down and no one made it to our fort. After waiting for several minutes, I went to check it out. Apparently, a limp and muttered swearing at each rock you stumble over is the perfect camouflage for humans. I made it to a place right above their fort without anyone seeing me. From there, I was able to pick off the last of their defenders.

We played for five hours. I ended up covered in mud. I still have the bruise on my thigh and bubble on my knee from where I was hit. I’m sure I have several other bruises, but hopefully the overall pain will keep them masked until they heal.

On the way home, I lifted my travel mug, full of luke-warm coffee in a toast--I’d kept up with the kids. Next time, I’ll suggest we play on a Saturday, so I have a full day to recover. As I drove home, wincing at each bump, I drank my coffee. I may be old, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to not drink the coffee. Hopefully I’ll remember where my mug is tomorrow…

Quality Time

This past summer, my daughter really found her legs. It’s been amazing watching the differences between her and her brother. He spent the first four years of his life in Vienna, Virginia. I think the biggest hill around us was shorter than me. Oh, we had gradual hills, but nothing compared to western Pennsylvania, where we moved when he was almost four and his sister was still learning the freedom of crawling.

Just like Vienna was pretty much flat, western Pennsylvania is pretty much flat. The main difference is the flatness is mixed in with constant hills, valleys and mountains. That first summer we all enjoyed exploring our new domain. (We moved from a postage stamp lot to three acres, so it was huge in our eyes.) There was one small problem. While living on the side of a mountain guarantees you spectacular views, it means you are on the side of a mountain. When we bought the house, I knew we’d be carrying my daughter for that first summer. My wife even made the comment that she was looking forward to walking up and down the hills and getting in shape. (After fifteen years of marriage, I knew enough to keep quiet whenever she made that comment.)

I don’t think my daughter is stronger or more stoic than my son, it’s just that she’s never known anything but hills. My son and I had a nice tradition in Vienna. After dinner, when the weather permitted, we’d walk to a creek about a mile away from out house. Sometimes he rode his tricycle; sometimes he’d push his mower. When we got to the creek, we’d take turns tossing rocks into the water. We also played in the cul-de-sac with the other kids and the parents. So, he wasn’t a junior couch potato. He must have thought it very rude to find his flat turf replaced by unending hills.

One of the rudest things I found was when I got a call from my wife saying a tree had fallen across our driveway. When we first saw the house, the driveway amazed us. Over a hundred feet long and laid perfectly with pavered blocks. Not only that, but huge rhododendrons bordered both sides of the driveway and in the spring it was like driving down a tunnel of purple. Near the house, the driveway spread out to a large parking area with two ancient trees in the middle, the pavered blocks around the trees. All in all, quite impressive. Until a windstorm blew one of the trees over and took out our power, cable and telephone lines.

To add insult to Mother Nature’s vandalism, the tree fell barely a month before we were going to host my wife’s family reunion at our new house. I still had to finish the deck, convert half the garage into a guest room, as well as my normal work. In other words, I was going to have a very irritated wife when everyone arrived and nothing was completed. (I’m great at starting projects, it’s the whole finishing thing I have a teeny tiny problem with.) We had a bit of luck in that we could still drive my car around the fallen tree. However, my wife’s minivan was a tight fit.

Now, there are those that will say, “So it’s a tight fit. Why’s that an issue?” Those are the same people that have seen the sides, bumper and tires of her car. It’s not that she’s a bad driver. If you’ve heard of touch typists, that’s how my wife drives. When she hits a curb, it’s time to stop. (Even my son, at four, knew it was ok to tease her about her driving. He told me, in great detail, how he looked out his window one time and they were flying. Since my wife was standing nearby and he was giggling the whole time, I knew he was teasing her.)

So, I had an almost four-foot diameter tree lying across our driveway and my wife’s car hopelessly trapped. And I had a trip to Washington DC coming up the next week. So in a weekend, I cut, chopped and split enough wood to last us for the winter.

The silver lining was that in September, the evenings tend to get chilly in the mountains. A good chunk of the stump remained and it made a cheery gathering place during the family reunion (We quickly ran out of neutral corners) as I tried to burn it down. (It only took a year and a half to completely burn the stump out.)

This is when I learned about my daughter’s fascination with fire. At almost two, she’d sit with me and laugh and chortle as the sparks shot into the night. That love of fire translated into watching me start the BBQ grill, fires in the fireplace and rewiring light switches.

Before I got a bellow, I’d spend several minutes blowing on the fire to get it going again after it’d burned down. Of course, she’d join me. There’s nothing quite as funny as watching her on her hands and knees, a good, safe distance from the fireplace, huffing and blowing. “I start fire for you, daddy,” she’d say confidently and turn her blonde head back and keep blowing. With her help, we’d get the fire roaring again and then we’d settle in for an evening of rocking. Now that I have the bellow, getting the fire going is easier, but when my daughter helps, we still do it the old fashioned way.