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by Dick Emmons
Art by Bob Bonlils
Our twin sons recently held a party
for their friends on the occasion of
their sixth birthday and I am profoundly
grateful that it can never happen again.
The production we put on that after
noon resembled nothing so much as a
Cecil B. DeMille mob scene in miniature.
There were times when I pleaded with
m wife to call the state militia.
The whole affair started about a week
ahead of Dickie's and Davie's actual an
niversary when, at supper one evening,
my wife and I casually asked, the boys
if they would like to have a party.
"A party!" Davie piped.
"Oh, boy!" Dickie squealed.
They bolted the rest of their meal
while my wife and I talked about invita
tions and guest lists. As soon as they
were excused from the table, they ran
outside and invited every kid within a
three-block radius.
The party had been scheduled for 4
p.m., but the first little guest a small
high-tension wire named Bobby Some-thing-or-other
arrived at 3:15. Ap
parently the other guests up and down
the street had been waiting for just such
a development because by 3:20 we were
hip-deep in towheads and hair ribbons.
The twins, unable to contain them
selves, met each successive arrival half a
block from the house, ripping open their
presents on the run and letting the
wrappings blow where they might In
no time our end of the block resembled
the city dump.
"Okay, kids," I called when everyone
had arrived. "Now we're going to play
a game. Now we're going to play a game!
NOW WE'RE GOING TO PLAY A
GAME!" I roared over the babble.
"Now if everyone will be quiet a min
ute, I'll explain what we're going to do. I
have scattered some bright, shiny pen
nies in the grass around me and when
I say go not yet, kids when I say go
here now, you're not supposed to start
until oof!" Tiny forms rushed from all
directions, upset me, and then thundered
across my prone form.
"Call the Marines!" I yelled to my
ever-helpful wife.
Instead, she called the children to cake
and ice cream, at which signal a dozen
or so of the hungrier ones tramped back
across me and sprinted for the huge
table we had carefully set on the lawn.
I rose groggily and stumbled off to "
help feed the smaller guests, many of
whom were grappling with the slabs
of ice cream by hand. En route I noticed
some shoving going on among several
of the larger boys at the far end of the
table. I raced over there to break it up
just in time to catch a caramel-topped
cupcake full in the face.
A full-scale cake war threatened to
break out, and it was only my quick
thinking which prevented it. "Hold it,
boys!" I shouted. "It's time to distribute
the favors."
I realize now that we had made a
major tactical blunder in the choice of
favors, but at the time of purchase it had
seemed that new squirt guns would
please everyone. They did.
Instantly the air was filled with flying
slugs of water and, for reasons I am not
prepared to cope with, most of them
were directed at me. One little fellow,
perched on the jungle gym, took full ad
vantage of his position to pour shot after
shot down my neck.
Drenched to the skin, bruised and
shaken, I announced that the birthday
party was over. One or two of the more
timid little girls took me at my word and
went tripping off home, their balloons
flying out behind them. But the main
task force, deploying skillfully around
the flower beds, continued to fire broad
sides at everything that moved.
It was nearly dark when the troops
dispersed and we had restored some
semblance of order.
"It was a grand party, dear," my wife
beamed, "I'm sure all the children had
a fine time! We'll have to do it again."
"By all means, let's," I mumbled
dazedly. "How about 1968?" 0
28
Family Weekly, June 14, 1959