“Do you have any toys?”
An innocent question, asked by a polite seven-year-old and silently seconded by his still-shy four-year-old brother. Toys? What could I say? To disappoint the tiny duo, visiting our adults-only cottage with friends of mine, was not an option. But toys? We don’t have toys. At least not the kind these little guys were looking for. We have games, sure. Scrabble, Monopoly, Rummoli. And fun guy-stuff like outboards and chainsaws. But no toys.
Then a dim memory surfaced in the back of my head. Of fun and shrieking laughter in the afternoon. I ran to the cottage and up the stairs to the big mothbally cupboard and found the toy that had provided so much pleasure in my childhood. Lawn darts. The funnest toy of all.
Though unfamiliar with the art of the dart, the boys took to the game as if born to it. For that matter, so did the adults. We all watched and clapped as the red darts then the yellow darts arced gracefully through the air before landing with a satisfying thunk in the centre of the plastic target. Bull’s eye! Then, mindful of the safety of bystanders, we sent the darts back to the other end of the pitch—climbing, stalling, then swooping down to their targets. After a while, a neighbour came by and joined in the fun.
I knew that what I was doing was wrong in the eyes of the law. That lawn darts were forbidden by the toy authorities, their sale banned in 1989 under the Canada Consumer Product Safety Act after a series of injuries and deaths. But for me, lawn darts had always been a supervised activity, and the way we played it that day, there was no danger from the darts as adults and children joined in the fun. We played all afternoon under golden sun without sustaining a single scratch.
After my playmates left, I took the time to toss a few solo darts, revelling in the heft of the projectiles, working on my delivery until I got it just right, with the perfect amount of loft and a smooth, gentle arc. I was “dialed in” and dropped a succession of darts right on the money. Bull’s eye! Bull’s eye! Bull’s eye!
When I was a kid, just about every family had a set of lawn darts. You could see their coloured tail fins flashing behind suburban fences and dotting cottage yards. Today, for our own good, darts are unavailable, replaced by soft foam substitutes—as safe as Kleenex and just as much fun.
At twilight, I packed up the lawn darts and put them back in the mothbally cupboard, where they’ll live—safe from the fun police—until someone else wants to experience the joy of a simple, satisfying toy.
This story originally appeared in our May ’00 issue.
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