By M. Scott Morris/NEMS Daily Journal
We had some spectacular crashes at our house over the weekend, and we enjoyed them.
Our Labor Day entertainment actually started at Christmas, when my son got a remote-controlled helicopter.
It’s supposed to be flown indoors but we took it outside because the house was full of relatives during the holidays.
A brisk wind blew the helicopter against some bricks, breaking part of its landing gear. We quit flying shortly after that because neither Evan or I could figure out how to make the thing go where we wanted.
Over the following eight or nine months, the helicopter sat on the microwave, and every so often we flew it around the kitchen. I don’t know about your kitchen, but ours is filled with glass, wood and sharp metal objects that a hard-to-control toy tends to knock over.
For the most part, the helicopter stayed on the microwave until Granddad and Tropical Storm Lee arrived for Labor Day weekend.
My original plan had been to gorge ourselves on food and football. We definitely did that, but the helicopter became surprisingly popular, as well.
In a fit of insight, we decided to move our flights to the living room, easily the most spacious place in the house. The only breakable thing is the TV, but it’s in a cabinet with doors that close.
Without really talking about it, Granddad and Evan came up with a game to shoot the helicopter with Nerf guns. If you’ve ever shot a Nerf gun, you know they’re not known for accuracy.
But some child-like, killer instinct kicked in. Those two were vicious and on-target, as I tried to steer through their gauntlet of foam projectiles.
It doesn’t take much to knock a plastic helicopter out of the living room sky, even a glancing blow does the trick.
A few times, the helicopter dive-bombed the attackers on its way down. I was secretly gleeful each time it happened, especially since nobody got hurt.
The hits on the helicopter added up after a while, and the toy eventually died of repetitive stress and catastrophic failure.
We mourned, but not for long because Granddad and Granddad’s Wallet were in town.
After a quick drive through rain-soaked streets and a payment of $34.99, not including tax, the air above the coffee table was once again buzzing with plastic rotors and Nerf missiles.
We also had shared laughter, congratulations for well-made shots and collective “ohhhhhhs” during downward spirals.
Throw in some football and food, and three generations of Morris men thoroughly enjoyed themselves during a rainy weekend in Tupelo.
When Granddad left town on Labor Day on Monday, I put an end to the shooting game because I want to be able to say, “Me,” whenever Evan says, “Who wants to the fly the helicopter?”
M. Scott Morris is a Daily Journal feature writer. Contact him at (662) 678-1589 or firstname.lastname@example.org.