Adan belly flops into the above ground pool and a chorus of ohhhhh's issue from the other kids. It's hot. Cloudless sky hot. The bees steadily work the floral scene, buzzing from flower to flower, staying out of direct sunlight as much as possible. The bees scatter for a moment from the belly flop's splash, and some of the water sprinkles you, too.
You step sideways and back away from the pool. Baths are okay. Wading pools are okay. Sprinklers? Not okay. And, just now, belly flops are similarly black listed. You make an unhappy sound and tap your two pointer fingers to your forehead, your bastardized sign for "pain." Of course, you're not in pain. But you haven't learned the sign for "that belly flop startled me and it's undesirable for me to get splashed as a spectator," so you've expanded the pain sign to include just this scenario.
You reach up and hold your dad's pointer finger and walk through the pergola to the food table. It's ten degrees cooler in the shade and your cheeks are already flushed red from the sun. Your face is greasy with SPF 70, but your mom may have acted to late. To be fair, your dad wouldn't have acted at all, and he'd be nursing your burns with aloe vera and vitamin E for the next week.
The olives are a hit. You can't eat those one at a time. And the strawberries are delicious. "The Strawberry Shack" (not its real name because your dad doesn't know its real name) is just a country mile down the road, and that's where these must have come from. You still call water "yummy," so you don't even bother asking for a sip of your dad's diet Squirt.
And the slide. That was the raison d'etre of Jessica's whole birthday party, as far as you were concerned. "It looks like I'm going to have to pick one of those up," your dad says. And your dad never says that. He's content to let you play with hand-me-down toys and birthday gifts. He doesn't often contribute to the already sizable stockpile of toys at your disposal. Plus, he takes a certain pleasure in seeing you play with a stray rubber band or a found stick for just as long as you play with a toy truck or bouncy ball, so he keeps his toy buying under control.
But this slide is something else. Up three steps, down the slide, put on a smile. You pick yourself up off the grass and point your own way back to the stairs again. Up steps. Slide down. Huge smile.
"Yep," your dad says, sipping his diet Squirt. "Looks like we'll be getting one of those."
Showing posts with label party. Show all posts
Showing posts with label party. Show all posts
July 24, 2011
February 6, 2011
Filipino pinata party
"Estelle's lola just bought a couple hundred dollars' worth of groceries. Just tell me how many people are coming to her birthday party, and lola will handle the cooking," your lolo -- your grandpa -- said.
Your mom started an invitation list. Ladies from her Mommy Group, former coworkers from the congressman's office, volunteers from the 20-30 Club, a good friend in the Ashland Police Department, members of her church prayer circle, your mom's mom and dad, and of course the aforementioned lolo and lola.
Your dad started a list, too. It started with a pinata, and immediately ended with Filipino food. And since lola would be handling the cooking, half of your dad's list was checked off the moment he wrote it down.
Your dad never had a pinata at one of his own birthday parties. Only at friends' birthday parties. But he loved them. It was one of the few times his childhood kung fu training served him well. Trained from third grade until high school in the use of tai chi swords and Chinese broadswords, people always told your lolo that he was crazy for letting his kid use swords. Then those same people would prop a rifle in the back window of their pickup truck and take their child out to hunt deer and elk. So your lolo thought it was alright if his son learned how to swing a little more martial weapon.
One time in the Navy, your dad was invited to a shipmate's niece's quinceanera. There was a beautiful young girl in a white dress, and there was a yellow Pokemon pinata. Your dad, typically uncomfortable in family-and-friend gatherings in which he was neither family or friend, acted his typical self and stood with his hands in his pockets at the party's fringe. The San Diego parkland was all dark green and light green, leafy and grassy. The quinceanera girl's dad, along with two or three of her uncles, strung the Pokemon pinata up between two trees. The kids, maybe a dozen of them, gathered expectantly. There would be lots of candy on the ground soon. But first, there would be a good old fashioned pinata beating.
"You, you'll go first," the quinceaera girl's dad said. And he handed your dad a bat.
"No. Oh no," your dad said. "I can't go first."
"Sure, sure, you're our guest. Please, I insist. You'll go first."
Your dad loved pinatas. His politesse lay in a trampled heap underneath his desire to swing blindfoldedly at a yellow, candy-stuffed Pokemon character.
The blindfold went on and the quinceneara's dad spun him around. Six, seven times. Eight, nine times. He stopped spinning your dad around and your dad immediately snapped his head back in the opposite direction -- a trick he'd also learned in kung fu. Immediately, your dad's dizziness stopped. He held the baseball bat in front of him, stance wide, breathing slow. He simply stood there for several moments not moving.
Then your dad turned ninety degrees to his right, lunged his left foot forward, and swung the bat at eye level.
BAMPF. Your dad was immediately pleased and horrified. In one fell swoop, the Pokemon was halved, and the candy blasted out in a sugary rainbow onto the grassy San Diego parkland lawn.
Your dad pulled the blindfold up and off his head. The baseball bat drooped in his grip and then dropped to the ground. The children, somewhat mirthlessly, walked quietly around him and picked up candy. Your dad looked over at his shipmate that had invited him and shook his head slowly like, I'm sorry.
Your dad set the blindfold onto a corner of a picnic table as he walked back toward's his shipmate's car. He sat in there for the rest of the party.
Your mom started an invitation list. Ladies from her Mommy Group, former coworkers from the congressman's office, volunteers from the 20-30 Club, a good friend in the Ashland Police Department, members of her church prayer circle, your mom's mom and dad, and of course the aforementioned lolo and lola.
Your dad started a list, too. It started with a pinata, and immediately ended with Filipino food. And since lola would be handling the cooking, half of your dad's list was checked off the moment he wrote it down.
Your dad never had a pinata at one of his own birthday parties. Only at friends' birthday parties. But he loved them. It was one of the few times his childhood kung fu training served him well. Trained from third grade until high school in the use of tai chi swords and Chinese broadswords, people always told your lolo that he was crazy for letting his kid use swords. Then those same people would prop a rifle in the back window of their pickup truck and take their child out to hunt deer and elk. So your lolo thought it was alright if his son learned how to swing a little more martial weapon.
One time in the Navy, your dad was invited to a shipmate's niece's quinceanera. There was a beautiful young girl in a white dress, and there was a yellow Pokemon pinata. Your dad, typically uncomfortable in family-and-friend gatherings in which he was neither family or friend, acted his typical self and stood with his hands in his pockets at the party's fringe. The San Diego parkland was all dark green and light green, leafy and grassy. The quinceanera girl's dad, along with two or three of her uncles, strung the Pokemon pinata up between two trees. The kids, maybe a dozen of them, gathered expectantly. There would be lots of candy on the ground soon. But first, there would be a good old fashioned pinata beating.
"You, you'll go first," the quinceaera girl's dad said. And he handed your dad a bat.
"No. Oh no," your dad said. "I can't go first."
"Sure, sure, you're our guest. Please, I insist. You'll go first."
Your dad loved pinatas. His politesse lay in a trampled heap underneath his desire to swing blindfoldedly at a yellow, candy-stuffed Pokemon character.
The blindfold went on and the quinceneara's dad spun him around. Six, seven times. Eight, nine times. He stopped spinning your dad around and your dad immediately snapped his head back in the opposite direction -- a trick he'd also learned in kung fu. Immediately, your dad's dizziness stopped. He held the baseball bat in front of him, stance wide, breathing slow. He simply stood there for several moments not moving.
Then your dad turned ninety degrees to his right, lunged his left foot forward, and swung the bat at eye level.
BAMPF. Your dad was immediately pleased and horrified. In one fell swoop, the Pokemon was halved, and the candy blasted out in a sugary rainbow onto the grassy San Diego parkland lawn.
Your dad pulled the blindfold up and off his head. The baseball bat drooped in his grip and then dropped to the ground. The children, somewhat mirthlessly, walked quietly around him and picked up candy. Your dad looked over at his shipmate that had invited him and shook his head slowly like, I'm sorry.
Your dad set the blindfold onto a corner of a picnic table as he walked back toward's his shipmate's car. He sat in there for the rest of the party.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)