At church for Christmas Eve, candles were lighted but not extinguished until the very end of services, as the sermon was a lot about Joseph and he was a carpenter, not a fire fighter, until maybe he burned out, with his firewood.
Then my niece turned back to us and said, I guess you can’t take it with you. Out of church, that is. (Her actual words, though, were that maybe we would, the hundreds of us all as one, soon set sprinklers off in the building.) I responded that there was no need to call firefighters, as the church would be mostly cleared and the flames that were only flickering to start with long blown out, before they would get here. Her boyfriend snickered. Then I doubled down, as that seems what you do these days. “Don’t have to call the department, we’ve got this one,” God’s children acting in his behalf, by snuffing. The boyfriend laughed more heartily.
— And then there were those parking-lot-entry traffic watchers and organizers and weighers. They were seen at the start of the service we went to, one of several that day, and were also there after we left, as there was no room for more cars at the motor lodge, so to speak. There are that many Chreasters who attend at this Lutheran Church. (We were at a middle service. One might assume they got a break around sermon time.)
The assembled were given starting instructions before the service started, to only exit right not left, as so ye will be directed. If not ICE might get you — though few Hispanics attend this church and it’s all white folk although not Evangelical — if The Grinch doesn’t first.
Those waiting past Advent with their vests of orange and yellow, or both, were seen unlike the eager Salvation Army bell ringers, looking tired and cold and flat-out bored. Around the middle as they sat when they could, around the midsection looking a lot like Santa. —
As he’s gotten to know, in this family we joke. The rest of the evening was filled with more gags, about six of us whiffing also at ping pong, (some more than others), eight traffic aides directing (this will be tomorrow’s sidebar) and just who of the nine would win at cards. Spoiler alert, we doubled down again, damn that bro of mine, (dare I say that at Christmas?)
But first, the ultimate candle joke, from a previous year, when it literally was burned at both ends, or tried to. My bro, again, attempted to pass the candle flame to me and it just wouldn’t light, time after time. Finally he looked at the hooded cup that was wider but not longer then the candle itself, and said, “you’ve got it upside-down.” As in no wick there. I said this was burning candles for dummies. He then invoked the sermon of the night.
But won’t time travel, like The (magic) Magi, so back to present day. I had hoped to get away without table tennis being tossed at my tush. But drawn in I was. I couldn’t even win as a child, and these days, the swing and miss is virtually all that I know. But maybe this year would be different, If I’d really bear down and concentrate …
After all, my other niece was in heels and long dress and would have to be running around the table in a game we’d invented, or at least long made use of, called naturally, Runaround. Just don’t rip the dress on the corner of the table. The first few volleys found me only drawing one miss, and at least it wasn’t a full flub, but not long later it was up to five – including two total whiffs as my cruel family volleyed long on the table and hard at me – and I went out with an attempted backhand on a high bounce in the corner where I barely drew iron, er, wood, er, plastic. These were not the crude strictly wooden paddles with sandpaper of my boyhood, though still familiar to me, that were too hard and made shots go long, but those gourmet kind with just the right rubber finesse for a twist obtained by my bro.
I remember a previous year when the guy directly across from me, who travels on business, was accused of such a high and long, lobbed Space Ball that’s typically Olympics style from Far Eastern Europe, and I was tempted to ask if he’d just learned the technique from Elon Musk on a covert trip to Russia. Big buildup for a bad joke on how best to beat even Bond.
But this was only preseason, I laughed. Maybe I’d play like many a ponderous sports team, hmm, in Minnesconsin, who suck big and then finally show up to play only as a wild card in the postseason. My bro chuckled, even guffawed, saying it’s best to try to make at least a late pre-playoff run. But I was being sarcastic, and it got me in the end. I had set myself up to be slammed. Just like when I was a kid. Always ended up playing defense ‘cos I had no game. The backhand and forehand always hit the same side of the paddle, that being to edge, and the careening ball would get lost in the corner. Sniffy nosed, whiny, broken glasses … Like the little brat on A Christmas Story.
But alas, now it is retirement age, and there is only one last joke to tell. How to do know when it’s time to retire, from ping pong? If you have to stretch out for ten minutes before you play. Bro was kind enough to laugh. Pity laugh. I’ll get him at the next game. Not on a table, per se, but on a board.
This is one of the two new parlor games introduced, I swear, at every Christmas on record. It is called Flip 7. A card game. Like Sheepshead, also called Schopfscoff, which I also get creamed at from the hands of my German relatives. Mom drew first blood, and I drew second. The game shuffled along, and both of us were confused about the Freeze and Action cards. Am I in good company? And also the Flip 3 variety. Once when dealt the first, single card of a hand, I tried to play it, as a Flip 7, and was promptly told I had it turned backwards, dummy. Like when it was my turn to deal and someone said “hit me,” and I hadn’t heard, so I just looked at them. The game goes with Joe, but kinda slow. I did get the biggest laugh, however, when I said one of the players, when casting a card, made a “mental whiff.”
But the last would (almost) be first, as comebacks were made. My bro remained near the back of the pack. Hah, I got him! But as it turned out, he was waiting in the wings, wading with wet-only-waders in the swamp, biding his time, lingering to make his move.
Then, back to the wall, he was dealt near the maximum number of cards you could safely be allowed before busting. Two of the same kind and you’re toast. One by one they fell, with no damage done, although gasps grew longer and louder. Finally, the last possible card and … safety! But he was still several points short of the winning number of 200. There was only one hope left, like in Blackjack, hoping for that ace when holding a queen and a king. Hush as the final card was turned.
A DOUBLE YOUR POINTS! He had won, like at ping pong and it would turn out, later at Scrabble. The red Wisconsin Badger hat he had been given at gift giveaway was held higher than his 6-foot-4 frame, and waved around, to nods of approval. What, was he going to take a victory lap around the oval kitchen table, that he had complained at first shuffle had his chair backed in a corner?