The Bro-In-Law, Sister Here, and myself flew Phlegm (the 2003 Taurus) to the Hawkeye State in a 72-hour, 1,111 mile blur that still has me recuperating four days later.
Not as young as I used to be.
Actually, Phlegm got the better mileage.
It passed a lot more gas stations than I did.
I'm just getting back into the Chair after fending off a pre-dawn attack by a quartet of deer.
They were eating the Wife's freshly planted flowers by the front door.
They should be glad it was me and not her chasing 'em.
A sip of the Elixir of Knowledge helps me relax and replay conversations with relatives long missed and recently seen.
Huh.
A remembered sound bite triggers a weird thought.
And a surprisingly small and bitter memory.
I'm about 10.
A shirt-tale relative, one I see about every five years, wants to play "RISK".
Cool.
I like that game.
Sure, let's play.
The kid changes the rules.
A two-hour game is over in five minutes.
And he wins.
By cheating.
Now I remember telling him this wasn't how the game is played.
He didn't believe me.
I reached for the rule book to show him.
He kept playing and completely wiped me off the board.
It looked like he won.
He thought he won.
But he didn't.
Really.
The jerk.
Coming back to the present, I get up to replenish the Elixir.
And then it hits me.
The Rule Book of Life says I'm to forgive.
And here I am, holding on to this little, festered pimple of a memory for almost a half-a-century.
Whoa.
That's the thing about the Rule Book and the Rule-Maker.
Neither one of them changes.
They're always the same while the Game is being played.
And even when it's over.
Even when I don't want them to be right. Or applicable. Or around.
But the Rules are always the Rules.
Nuts.
Who's the jerk now, eh?