The summer fun I didn’t know I needed
(Originally published July 2022)
I did something a little crazy last week: I had fun.
I mean, yes, I have fun almost every day. This morning, for instance, I played Wordle. But last week, we had a houseful of our grown children and their children, 12 of us in all, and one night after dark, we played flashlight tag.
I missed most of the rule-explaining part, as I was busy inside liberally applying mosquito repellent and camo paint, but the game seemed to be based on the same principles as hide-and-seek, with the added risk of breaking your neck colliding with objects you can’t see in the dark.
The big black locust tree behind our house was designated “home,” and whoever was “it” counted while the rest of us hid around the yard. Our goal was to make it back to home base without “it” tagging us with the flashlight beam.
The first person to be spotted would be “it” on the next round, while everyone else would compete to be the last one found, presumably for the bragging rights. I don’t think that’s technically how the game works, but I was not provided an official rulebook. The way we played it, flashlight tag turned out to be partly a game of stealth, partly a spectator sport; those of us who got tagged out or made it home cheered for the stragglers as they tried to elude the light.
Our ages spanned from preschool to pre-retired, so the adults would often team up with younger players, who weren’t clear on the mission and tended to get distracted chasing fireflies. Even the older kids, who understood the object of the game, could not manage to remain still and silent for more than four seconds.
“The flashlight weighed only a few ounces but had the range and intensity of a Klieg light, making hiding challenging, even far across the yard.”
I was only “it” once, and I ceded flashlight rights to my four-year-old partner, who, to her credit, quickly spotted her father belly-crawling between two flower beds. Oblivious to her continuing role, however, she then began playing with the flashlight beam while the other players sauntered back to base unchallenged. Worse, she showed no remorse for her dereliction of duty.
We upped the standard difficulty level with the addition of two dogs. Ours, a poodle/terrier mutt, discovered a long-forgotten ancestral skill: pointing. He would stand like a well-trained hunting dog, with his tail straight out and one foreleg crooked, his nose aimed squarely at the nearest hider. Should “it” not happen to turn the light on him, he’d wait until the hider attempted to tiptoe to a more advantageous location, at which time he’d start barking.
The other dog, a black poodle/retriever (also a mutt, but the kind you pay for), was invisible in the darkness. If he chose you for his partner, he would bounce like Tigger around and under your feet, impeding your run to home, while your angry whispers of “No! Down! Get!” gave away your position.
The flashlight weighed only a few ounces but had the range and intensity of a Klieg light, making hiding challenging, even far across the yard. Strategies varied by player. My go-to obstacles were vehicles and trees. Others crouched in the flower beds or behind the chicken coop. Mark, summoning an agility I didn’t know he still possessed, flitted like Batman through the night, consistently appearing at home base out of nowhere.
Several inadvertent booby traps claimed victims, including some old branches I had stacked near the edge of the lawn and a pile of dog poop that got its 15 minutes of fame that night.
My nemesis was the brake light of the boat trailer, which took me mid-quad as I sprinted toward home. The “oof” sound I made—a combination of pain and surprise—drew the attention of “it.” When she turned her flashlight on me, I saw that I had scraped my thigh and torn the leg of my only decent pair of jeans. It was a sacrifice I was willing to make.
After many rounds, we eventually got tired (“we” meaning the adults) and called it a night. But in that hour or so, we managed a lot of laughing and hooting and squealing and celebrating, with only enough injuries to keep things interesting.
It was the kind of fun I need more of. Not to knock the New York Times, but I can’t think of a time I ever ripped my jeans playing Wordle.
