Laser Tag Birthday Party Survival Guide

Having an end of August and early September birthdays are hard on my middle kids. I feel bad for them because their birthdays are two weeks apart so inevitably their parties are combined because I don't have the energy to do it twice. Summer parties are difficult because Washingtonians flee the oppressive humidity of August. Even if they understand why their friends can't attend, it's still depressing when only a handful of those you invited actually show.

That's what I was thinking when I scheduled the party for Labor Day weekend. With a friend's tales of childhood disappointment in my ears, who never had sleepovers or parties on her birthday because her friends were out of town over the holiday weekend, I over-invited in anticipation of no-shows.

As luck would have it, everyone came. Several more neighborhood kids loitered in the street in front of the house, patiently waiting to be waved over. Including my own four, my yard contained 31 children between the ages of 5 and 12. Thankfully, my neighbors were out of town.

I had the good sense to hire someone to run the party. Earlier that summer, my friend Celeste hosted an outdoor laser tag party at her home run by a game master. He brought all of the equipment to her house and organized the kids into battalions. We had planned for 24 and were concerned the kids would be disappointed they'd have to wait but the kids willingly took breaks in between battles to escape inside where it was cool to play air hockey and foosball. On another table were army men, tanks and airplanes. The weapons bucket in the basement that contained an assortment of Nerf Guns, pistols and light sabers emptied in a flurry of skirmishes, good versus evil.

Final casualty count: one watermelon, two canteloupes, 2 lbs of grapes, 4 lbs of strawberries, 136 servings Country Time Lemonade, two Costco-sized bags of chips and pretzels, and one vanilla cake that served 45.  The rest was a sweaty, smelly success.

In Memory of Edward J Powers

This post is for friends and family who were unable to attend my father's funeral in Fort Gratiot, Michigan on January 21st, 2017. 

My dad had an great laugh and always had a story to tell. The one he told over and over was how his first day as a firefighter was the day I was born. When he introduced me I wasn’t just his daughter, I was “This is my daughter, Heather. She was born on my first day at the engine house. I was new and too nervous to ask the Captain if I could bust out. Someone else did it for me.”

The firehouse was a large part of our lives growing up. His 24 hour shifts (to this day I couldn’t explain to you what Kelly or Super Kelly mean). Or how he would reek of smoke when he returned home from work. He told me about the time he told someone he was a firefighter and she put her hand on the top of his head, pulled him toward her and sniffed a few times. She let go of his head and confirmed, “Why, yes, yes you are!” because showers don't get the smoke out of firefighters' scalps and hair. 

And there were lots of firefighter shenanigans. Once when I was little I saw dad in the bathroom leaning against the sink, shaving. I noticed he had the letter “P” in large, black sharpie on each butt cheek. When I asked “What’s that?” He said that he was the “PP” in ‘Happy’. Seeing I was still confused, he explained a bit more slowly, “I was the “PP” in “Happy Birthday”. So that’s how adults celebrate birthdays.

There were some perks to having a father in the Detroit Fire Department. My brother, Jim, and I would get to sit on top of Headquarters downtown to watch the International Freedom Festival Fireworks. If we wanted to go to Greektown we could usually park at the firestation there.

Dad knew a lot of people which meant he'd run into someone everywhere we went. Jim and I would get bored waiting for him to finish his conversations, “Com’on, Dad. Let’s gooo.” And this was before he went to Ireland – he didn’t need to kiss the Blarney stone. I carry on the tradition with my own kids who know that if I’m talking to a parent when I pick them up they have another 30 minutes to keep playing. Dad could carry on a conversation with anyone and often did.

Then there was the Fire Department Clown Team, a group of young guys on a red truck goofing around to make kids smile and raise money for the Burn Unit at Children's Hospital. One of my favorite pictures of Dad, aka the Chief of Fun, about to kiss a preschooler’s hand at the Fireman’s Field Day.  Jim and I were reminiscing about how we used to play on the truck when it was parked in our backyard.

I got to know the city fairly well because I would go with Dad when he ran errands. As a firefighter, he knew Detroit like the back of his hand. I loved time in the car with him because it usually meant we’d go exploring. Eastern Market. Zeb’s. Hirt Cheese Company. The Wine Shoppe where Tim McCarthy would fix Dad up with whatever he needed. Hamtramck. Donuts from Supreme Bakery. He was always checking out new places. Once when he came to visit me in Maryland he went to local shopping center and came back with onion rye bread, deli meats and marinated mushrooms just because. I was amazed because I’d been going to that shopping center for years and didn’t know that stuff was there.

Baseball would become a significant part of our lives when dad bought Casey’s Pub in 1983. I’ve enjoyed hearing everyone’s stories about what Casey’s meant to them – how it was a gathering place for police officers, fire fighters and others. He developed a real sense of community. Sometimes on Thanksgiving or Christmas Day Dad would open up the bar for anyone who didn’t have any place to go. He’d cook, Lord he’d cook, and there’d be a ton of food. Jim and I were recruited to help at the bar whether it was serving burgers on Opening Day or cleaning the urinal in the men’s room. Now that’s a character building experience!

Dad was interested in everything. When I was little car rides could be unbearable because he was always listening to J.P. McCarthy and WJR talk radio. The bathroom was stocked with Readers Digest, Popular Science and the Bottom Line. He introduced my kids to Uncle John’s bathroom readers, full of stories, nuggets and trivia. Kim used to joke he’d read the label on a can of peas. He liked to watch Bill Maher. We talked about all sorts of things – Detroit politics, economic development, current events, you name it. As I grew older and brought the family to visit, these conversations took place in the kitchen while he and Kim cooked. In the morning, he would pull out the Jiffy Mix to whip up waffles and fry up bacon AND sausage links (such a luxury to have both). And the stories would come.

How Grandpa Powers earned medals for bravery in World War I; the night Grandpa died of a stroke when he was nine; how Grandpa was a motorman for the DSR and how he used to ride with him and ring the bell until a cranky rider complained; how, in the Navy, he’d buy American whiskey in the commissary and sell it to his landlady in Scotland to pay for petrol. The story of the nice lady in Ireland who looked up his family’s birth records in Waterford and mailed them to him.

Tales from the Engine house like when they responded to a fire and a woman cried, “My babies! My babies! are trapped upstairs!" to discover they were Beanie Babies; or the time a woman got stuck in her bathtub; or about the time a local dive bar caught fire. When the firefighters arrived the smoke was several layers thick and the regulars were still at a table drinking their beers - sideways. The fire chief said, “Hey, this building’s on fire!” and one of them replied without missing a sip, “We know. That’s why we called you.”

Dad used to say, “Fireman are the cheapest sons of bitches around. If you need something done cheap, hire a fireman.” He was frugal, too. He bought his cars used and paid cash. After the gasoline shortages in the 70s Dad bought a brand new VW Rabbit diesel.  We got a luggage carrier, aka the Bubble Burger, for the top and drove it to Washington DC, Boston, Pennsylvania and Cooperstown, NY (where, of course, Dad ran into someone he knew). It was cramped but we made fond memories.

My father and me November 2007

When I was ten, I had my first experience with the death of a relative, my dad’s Uncle Bill, the youngest of the Powers men who emigrated from Ireland. His wake was the first wake I'd ever attended. It was an Irish wake and It Was A Party. Food, alcohol, laughter - loud and plentiful. That was quite a standard to set and, as you can imagine, quite a contrast to all the subsequent funerals I attended that weren’t Irish (“Why is everyone whispering?”). 

Dad did not handle death well. He never went to funerals. But he was ready for his own and that should give us comfort. He’s with his mom and dad again and his best firemen buddies seen in the photos behind me.  I’d like to think Dad would want us to celebrate because he is at peace. And so long as we hold the stories we have of him have in our hearts, he will be with us.

- Heather Powers Sauter