Friday. November 23, 2001

the games never stop

"The wastepaper basket is the writer's best friend."

Isaac B. Singer

Leftover day is a day of drifting from microwaved plate of food to turkey nachos to take-out pizza in an ever-tightening belt that includes more pie, cake, cookies. Fortunately for me, my appetite for dessert is low at most times and holidays put me off from eating after a bit. There is also a constellation of floating games of Scrabble, MasterMind, Sequence, Monopoly and Chicken Foot. Football played in the background. People sleep and tell stories on one another. The few remaining smokers (one cigarettes, one cigars and no one under 70) slip outside occasionally, accompanied by others who swap stories. Walks are taken. The dog hunts and hunts, nose down on the floor, pausing occasionally for a pat.

The lemon potato and its casserole pan are a casualty to the slippery pans and garage floor. Multiple clean-ups and dishwashing events occur. A wine glass pops in my hand. No burns this year, but the wine glass cuts a small v on my hand. It's a pleasant day. The 1000-piece puzzle is easily finished early on and put away to yield space for a game.

We are a game family. Monopoly and Scrabble have occupied us for years. There is a contingent of 42 players (a domino game). Other games come and go in favor. One of the latest is Sequence. One that had a moment in the sun many years ago was MasterMind. I trot it out and reintroduce its logical, frustrating, simple yet not, premise to the group. They've played before and are quickly torturing each other with it.

Some folks have to leave. My cousin's wife has to trasnport her band member son to a high school playoff football game so he can play in the band. Her husband, my cousin, stays on in the other car and will drive his girls back to Dallas. We pause to trot out a cake and sparkling grape juice to mark my younger cousin's birthday. His 50th. A few years ago he referred to our parents as 'the adults.' Referring to the boys in the backseat of his car at the time, I asked, "If they are the adults and those are the kids, who are we?"

"We," he said, "are the responsible adults."

By 50 you should be responsible. It's a little easier to imagine being surrounded by supportive family.

We finally break up, agreeing to meet at Mom's, those still in town, for a brief visit tomorrow.

I pick up a few things. The relatives won't be back. So, the puzzles and games can be put away. And the furniture rearranged to accommodate just the two of us, instead of twenty.

I read the papers, catching up on war and despair. Did you know that if you lived in North Korea, you would have almost a 1 in 10 chance of dying? Not ever. Each year. Yep, we have lots to be thankful for. More food is wasted during this feast than those ten people have to eat in a week. When we turn on the tap, hot and cold pure water runs out. I always marvel at that.

It does my heart good to see the faces of women in Afghanistan. Yes, they will struggle, but they have a chance now to face the enemy and literally look him in the eyes. If the enemy just happens to be not a god but power-hungry males of the human race, well then.

JUST TYPING
Winding down.
Entertaining.
It was good to have the house full.
Have people enjoy the space.
Your house really works for the group.
A cousin comments.
Yes. It does. We gear for entertaining.
And love it. Then.
Happily drift back into the quiet.
Us at our computers.
Dog, sleeping, calm.