Goodminton

We have a very narrow lawn in our backyard before the property pitches steeply downhill into jungle. Lawn is a generous exaggeration. We keep the weed patches neatly mowed until we grind them into dirt playing badminton. We have a portable net but my nine year old granddaughter and I rarely use it. The net barely fits the widest place in the lawn and ends too many rallies prematurely. We call our game Goodminton. The object is to see how many consecutive hits (our record is 34) we can make before the birdie hits the ground, lands in the jungle, or gets stuck in the gutters dangling off our roof. If Zofia ever plays real badminton, her opponents will love how she instinctively sets up their slam shots. The advantage of our version is no one loses, argues, or complains. We cry only tears of joy. My granddaughter is even more competitive than me. She creatively refuses to accept any defeat. She could grow up to be President. We are both adjusting to the reality that arguing and complaining was our guilty pleasure. Luckily we also love laughing. The Pandemic turned me into an archeologist and I finally destroyed the overgrowth in the jungle and dug out treasures dating back to 1998. Badminton birdies are the most common artifacts as we had no easy way to reclaim them. But game pieces, garbage, and gardening tools have reemerged. One frustrated son hurled an unsolved puzzle toy down the bank. Clothes, pens, and knick-knacks are part of the loot that will now be donated to the Museum of Hoarding, temporarily located in our house. The recovered birdies are so damaged that they have unpredictable flight paths. Perfect for the laughing part of Goodminton.