It is said that families that pray together stay together. I
think it’s almost equally true that families that play together
stay together. If play time is the glue of family life, our
family is a sticky crew!
One scorching August day we were trying to escape the heat by
retreating to a summer cabin rental at Diamond Lake, high in the
Cascade Mountains of Oregon. Our little league star, Garin,
suggested that we play baseball.
“But we don’t have a ball up here,” I objected.
“We don’t need a ball. We can use pine cones,” answered Garin.
“Where would we play? There’s no clearing big enough,” I
countered.
“We can play in the driveway if you move the car.” Garin always
was a problem solver.
“Alright,” I groaned. “Come on. Everybody out to the driveway.”
I pouted while moving the car. I always was a bad loser.
The driveway to our cabin, you understand, was not the nicely
paved driveway you find in subdivisions. Instead, it was more
like a wild bear trail, weaving its way between 200-foot pines
and spruce and white fur, bordered on the west by Diamond Lake
and on the right by the country road. I had visions of the
Cincinnati Reds playing the World Series on a motorcycle track.
“The boat trailer will be first base,” declared Garin with the
authority that only comes with entrepreneurs. “The back of the
car will be second, and the outhouse will be third. Let’s use
this squirrel hole for home plate. ”
So we did.
Mom said to start the game without her. She would be there in a
minute. Garin was first up, naturally. He tripled off the Blue
Spruce. Conveniently at third, used the opportunity to hurry Mom
out of the game by pounding the rhythm of “Joshua Fit The Battle
of Jericho” on the outhouse wall.
Mom made her appearance just as Garth lined a foul ball into the
right field forest. Kendy claimed she retrieved the ball, but
the rest of us had our doubts, as the new ball seemed larger and
was certainly stickier than the old ball.
“Yuk” exclaimed the pitcher, Kurt. “This ball has pitch all over
it.’
Since I was doubling as catcher and umpire, I examined the ball
and decided that the new ball was definitely in order. I threw
out the old ball, threw in the new, and play resumed. Things
went nicely for 3 or 4 innings Kurt hit the ball over the cabin
and into the lake; the squirrel stuck his head up once but
quickly re-submerged when he saw Garth about to slide into home
plate; and a passing doe watched the game briefly from the left
field stands, but apparently got bored with our game and moved
on to more exciting adventures.
After the game we totaled the score, which was kept engraved in
the red dirt behind home plate. Kids 76; Mom and Dad 37. Garth
complained because he wanted to go swimming.
Bev and I, decisively defeated, headed for the cabin to drown
our sorrows in a tall ice tea while the kids scrambled to get
their swimming suits, inner tubes, frog feet, and snorkels.
While the victors celebrated loudly in the lake, the losers
retreated to the shade of a massive fir tree by the shore where
they licked their wounds and re-grouped for the next encounter.
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