When I was a boy growing up in Toledo Ohio, the kids in the neighborhood would all get together and have buckeye fights. Our yards were separated by low rock walls that offered great cover. We would collect the buckeyes (a small hard nut about the size of a golf ball) and stash our arsenal in special spots along the wall. When a fight would break out, to be sure, there would be plenty of ammo on hand. In the winter these fights would invariably be of the snowball variety. You learn very young that a few things are essential in procurring victory in a snowball fight. 1) Fighting from an uphill position is absolutely vital (some would suggest that having a strong accurate arm is essential. Not so. Without elevation advantage a good arm will only carry you so far. A ball thrown "down hill" gives the advantage to the thrower even if he isn't as strong or as accurate as his target Eisenhower's Law); 2) Almost as essential as an uphill position is having good cover (when the battle ground is level--good cover becomes the number one essential); 3) A strong cache of ammo and preferably a snowball maker (often a younger child not ready for the task at hand or a wounded ally unable to protect themselves during battle); and finally 4) Strong and accurate throwing ability.

It is with these abilities ingrained in my inner conscience that I headed out with my family for a wintery walk on the Tahoe Rim Trail on Saturday morning. The snow had started falling about 5am, and by noon, there were a few inches on the ground. We did the requisit building of the snowman, and making of snow angels and then it happened. Whomp-whomp. Right to the back, two snowballs. Direct hits. I turned to see my boy with a ginormous grin on his face and my daughter with a devilish grin. It's on. As they bent to get more snow, I moved down the trail. I secured a position just after a bend in the trail that gave me a great visual of the approaching enemy. I found a waist high boulder flanked by a number of low growing pines. I was elevated about three feet above the main route. I furiously began forming snowballs as I could hear the enemy troops quickly approaching. I waited. I could see them coming but wanted them more in range. My wife was the first to spot me and let fly with a ball. It smacked harmlessly into the rock. I was the next to throw and scored a hit on my wife in her left shoulder. I was aiming for the right shoulder as that is her dominant side. The boy threw next, wildly and high right. I noticed my daughter advancing and I stopped her dead in her tracks with a hit to the chest. She fell backwards. Another ball came in my direction and I failed to pick it up on my radar. It glanced off my head but it wasn't a mortal wound. I got off two quick shots. One a hit on the boy who was knocked backwards and one that just barely missed the wife's thigh. It was clear that I was winning the battle. The little ones had retreated now, cowering behind my main objective (the wife). I let go of a torid volley in her direction. The first got her in the forehead, the second missed badly, the third and fourth will live in family lore forever. With the wife, yet again, having to form another ball, I aimed for her as she was bent over to grab some snow. Before the round smashed into my target, she began to stand up. The ball, narrowly missing my intended vic, smashed into my boys face. There was a moment of silence at which point I threw my final ball. This one blasted off the wife's hip and careened into my girls face. About the time my boy got reved up into full wail mode, my daughter began to harmonize. Arm cocked, my wife shot me a look. The battle was won, but I somehow knew at that moment the war was completely lost. The lesson? Not sure, but I will say this, later when having evening mess with my family, I asked the now allied troops what their favorite part of the day was, they both clearly stated that the snowball fight was the best. OooRah Privates!!

Johnny GoFast