This past weekend, my oldest grandson turned five.

What a wonderful age. He already knows just about everything he needs to know — up from down, right from wrong, please and thank you, and when it starts to rain outside it’s time to come inside.

Once he masters the art of tying his own shoelaces, he will (for the most part) know all the really important things in life. Please notice that algebra, political science, and quantum physics have not made this list. However, I consider it important that, at some point, being able to balance a checkbook becomes a vital part of his knowledge bank — that, and basic carpentry.

His mother planned a themed party at the local bowling emporium, focusing on four anthropomorphic turtles named after Italian Renaissance artists. Even though I never actually saw any turtles bowling, the party was a lot of fun.

Of course, children’s birthday parties are the exact definition of fun. They come in a plethora of styles, shapes and sizes but the basic ingredients remain the same — a gathering (which could be anywhere from a couple to a herd) of clamoring kids, fueled by sugar (what is a birthday party without cake and ice cream?), running around screaming at the top of their lungs, with one kid getting all the good stuff.

Oh — and when the party is at a bowling alley, they all get to roll a big, heavy ball and knock things down. How often can a kid knock things down, on purpose, and get cheered for doing so?

The party was divided into two factions — kids’ lanes with gutter guards and special ramps for sending the bowling balls in the right direction, and the adult lanes with cavernous gutters that swallowed bowling balls with no concern, whatsoever, for my — excuse me, I misphrased that — no concern, whatsoever, for the feelings of SOME of the other adult participants.

On the kids’ lanes, none of the participants had a clue as to what they were doing – and that was perfectly fine for each and every one of them. On the adult lanes, just about every participant thought they knew what they were doing — and repeatedly proved themselves wrong.

Perhaps I should clarify that.

My good friend Esquire and I did our best to prove OUR inadequacies (everyone else seemed to have a reasonable understanding of the mechanics of the sport – some actually able to showcase that knowledge with strikes and spares).

Prior to the actual bowling activity (hurling a heavy sphere at ten semi-stationary objects, in the hopes of transforming all of them into a bouquet of moving objects), we went through the opening ceremonies of selecting just the perfect ball (it would appear the technical requirement for this exercise is to verify how well one’s thumb fits in the hole), lacing up shoes previously worn on the feet of a thousand other people, and drying of hands (I think I saw some of the league bowlers pulling moisture meters out of their bags and measuring palm sweat).

Due to the fact that I no longer am maintaining the body of a high school wrestler, I have considered various forms of exercise as a means of reclaiming some of that svelteness.

To be honest, the only part of me that isn’t fatter than it was when I was 17 is my head — life’s realities have helped with reducing that over-inflation. As we laced up our recently fumigated footwear, Esquire suggested that I consider taking up bowling because it employed an athletic regime I could tolerate — a little fast paced walking, followed by throwing a heavy ball with some semblance of control, followed by sitting and drinking.

Esquire and I were on the same team, and each of us broke 100 for the first time in — well, I can’t remember if I’ve ever broken 100 before. Esquire and I tied at 102, an amazing and (in this case) bragable feat. I started to consider Esquire’s suggestion. Perhaps I could turn bowling into my activity of choice, after all.

Then we bowled the second game and couldn’t break one hundred with our combined scores. To close out the second game, I took four ibuprofen and decided to sit out the third game.

Perhaps I’ll confine my activities to taking walks with my grandson and writing silly stories — neither requires a meter for monitoring palm sweat.

 

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.