Playing games

It’s no secret in my family. I love to play games. When I have nothing to do except steer about 3500 pounds of steel along busy highways, near and far, I decide to count state license plates. It’s pretty mindless, requires no skill at all, but there are rules, and they apply even if I’m the only one in that car. For example, there are no points for duplicates. If you’ve got a South Dakota, even if it’s only a remote possibility that you come up with another, you still cannot count it twice. And the only states that give you bonus points, and I know you’ll guess this immediately, are Alaska and Hawaii. They are exceedingly rare. I set a goal, which I never reach, and I’m off to escape the boredom that our interstate highways bring with their speed and efficiency.

Sometimes I count Amazon trucks. Wow. They are so ubiquitous. It’s hard to believe how many you can find on even a short trip. No doubt I personally fill up a truck a year. They’re not for you if you enjoy shopping in stores, but I find that a tedious activity and love the ease of placing my order and getting it overnight. Once I set a goal of 50 of the behemoths, and when I approached the exit and reached 49, I was despondent. And then, at a most unlikely place, #50 flew by. What a lucky day that was!

So there I am, playing whichever game I enjoy, even if others find them of little merit. When our kids were small but already able to spell, we would play Ghost in the car. We never ever completed the game, and sometimes losing meant a few tears shed, but unless you’ve got lots to talk about, a huge trip on a major highway is not that scintillating. By the way, my kids always knew, and know, that I play to win. I could play Candyland with a 3-year-old and go for the victory. Not nice for sure!

My favorite game, through college, was bridge. It’s an amazingly brilliant game, a far cry from counting Amazon trucks. I often got so engrossed in it that I remember once cutting my French class and bumping into the professor, Monsieur Jewel, on the stairs as he was ascending to teach our class and I was descending to the student lounge for a bridge game. We exchanged bonjours as we went our separate ways. My French, by the way, is nonexistent.

And then there was Dr. Lehrman, professor of organizational psychology and one of Newark Rutgers’ most prominent teachers. He researched the fascinating habits of pigeons at a facility on the school’s roof at 40 Rector Street. Often he got carried away, not by the pigeons themselves but by some fabulous bird trait that he had just discovered. When he just couldn’t tear himself away, he would appear very late for our class, which was a few flights down. Our class was full of serious bridge players, so we always rejoiced in his late arrivals by playing a few games. Often, he, also a fanatical bridge player, would come into our classroom and opine on our moves, giving rare praise, and usually cynical critiques. He was usually correct, but on those days we didn’t learn about the great intellects of the pigeons at all.

I finally had to cease and desist when it came to bridge. It had become obsessive. Thus, like giving up smoking, I persevered and finally stopped playing entirely. Now, at my advanced age, I fear that I’d never be able to learn all the new conventions (if you’re a bridge player, you know what I mean; and if you’re not, just forget I mentioned the word).

Lately I’ve got some new obsessions. In addition to sharing and remembering my life for you, I spend an inexorable amount of time worrying about the futures of our countries, this one known as the land of the free and the home of the brave, and that other one, constantly teetering on the various nightmares of its existence. These are nightmares not of my imagination but of the much more terrifying imaginations of many others. Since I’ve got progeny in both these places, they mean more to me than if I were a hermit secluded in some mountainous cave with, maybe, pigeons for companionship.

And my husband and I, as you know, neither one a cave dweller, share our fears, always in agreement. It’s not that we’re so compatible. Just hear me out — when he does something I don’t like or I do something he doesn’t like, I’m sure you can hear us going at it again wherever you are! But when it comes to the big battles, elections, wars, and terrorist attacks, we’re in constant unified togetherness. We agonize. We despair. We wonder how the world has come this far. It is hard to believe!

Thus, the dreaded election is over and we should be acclimating ourselves. The man we hoped would lose didn’t. Were we crazy? Nah. But he still is. Just review his cabinet appointments to date. How are they going down with you? Were you happy with Gaetz, for example?

The inauguration hasn’t yet taken place, but the troubles are abundant. Do we have a dictator? Yes. I think we do. But there’s no choice except to let it play itself out, even though I know so many of you think things will get better for the Jews now. I personally dread what’s coming but I’ve vowed to be open minded and forgiving. Do I have a choice? No, but I honestly hope that the day soon comes when I can tell you Trump is a good guy and I’m so glad you voted for him and helped to elect him. That’s a nice dream!

Let’s just see. I’m not looking for victory, like when I play games. I’m praying that you were right and I was wrong.

In Israel I’m very worried. The world doesn’t seem to take note of the hundreds of our young men, boys really, who’ve already died in battle. But this old grandmother, she does! And those hostages. Gevalt! Nightmares! Tragedy! I feel like impotence is my middle name. What can I do?

So, one of the games that I play is that I’m Candide and that this is the best of all possible worlds. If only….

Rosanne Skopp of West Orange is a wife, mother of four, grandmother of 14, and great-grandmother of eight. She is a graduate of Rutgers University and a dual citizen of the United States and Israel. She is a lifelong blogger, writing blogs before anyone knew what a blog was! She welcomes email at rosanne.skopp@gmail.com

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