Jerry, bless his heart, sat in the living room, at various times through the evening reading the newspaper, studying the Bible, and playing with the grandkids, while we heathen people circled the table in the dining room roaring with such laughter that sometimes speech was impossible and warm tears were loosed. Balderdash was the culprit, surely the most uproarious game ever invented. Jerry, poor thing, is just not into games that much, somehow missing the crucial gene that sets the body to a quiver as someone calls, “Who’s up for a game of Balderdash or a round of Rook?”
“Guess what time I came to bed,” I said to Jerry this morning.
“It was two or three o’clock, Shirley. I know for I was still awake.”
“It was not! It was only 1:30.”
“Well, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I dozed off, your yelping would wake me up.”
“Sorry…” I weakly apologized. For from such a pure and righteous heart as mine, how could I spit out a sincere sorry for having so much fun on a Thanksgiving evening with my grown children as we circled a table, some so overtaken with glee as to fall from their chairs to the floor, the hours punctuated by nibbles of ham sandwiches, pumpkin pie, and buttered yeast rolls.
A couple of years ago, I wrote of our playing the game Balderdash, that I didn’t have a set of my own, and that I was hoping Santa would deliver on my wish. He did, and since we’ve been home in Crestline this week, I have staggered to bed past the 12:00 witching hour three nights in a row, having engaged in hilarious rounds of this wonderful game.
Unique joy and silvered memories are inextricably linked to family holiday games, where for the day or the evening are laid aside mundane chores, wearisome work schedules, seemingly unsolvable problems, and in their places are set laughter and hope and love.
That’s not balderdash!