This Candyland Is Our Land

I made a mad dash out to Christmas Island last weekend, to tie up some health care-related loose ends. The trip itself was a horrible nightmare that I kept trying for weeks beforehand to find ways to talk myself out of. The risk versus benefit analysis was nowhere near the kind of ratio I’m comfortable with.

The road out of Boise, for a couple hundred miles, is all two-lane twisty, hilly highway. It occurred to me early on that no matter how carefully I might navigate the treacherous terrain, especially while passing slow-moving vehicles, I was only somebody else’s error in judgment away from going home to glory. It made cresting every hill and approaching every blind turn a special occasion.

For two hundred miles. Coming and going.

Then on the drive back, made on about 4.5 hours of sleep, I had to navigate 100+ miles of serious cliff-side mountain driving (which I hate) in the dark (which I hate) and through fog so dense a couple times I slowed down to about 20 mph and talked to the playlist of Johnny Cash gospel tunes I was listening to. My assumption was that, although I am not personally a believer, Cash was and I believe in him, so—in a worst-case scenario—I was hoping to ride into the next life on his coattails.

Happily it didn’t come to that, but all things considered, it’s not a drive I see myself making again any time soon.

The thing that saved the weekend was a kind invitation extended by The Last Boy Scout to crash at his place instead of the local HoJo’s, which had been my original plan. I figured the odds that my trip would coincide with a slow weekend for him were pretty slim because of his busy weekend wedding band schedule, but I lucked out. Nobody got married last weekend.

There wasn’t much catching up to do. Between Facebook and email, we hadn’t dropped out of touch, we’d just lost the ability to enjoy shared experiences like concerts, BBQs and birthday celebrations.

Yeah, okay, I’m still a little bitter. Fish gotta swim…

We played a little bit of guitar, he playing rings around me. Besides the fact that I was logy and exhausted from my trip, he just knows a hell of a lot more guitar than I do. But it was all right, we were just fucking about. He had a bunch of sheet music that would have been helpful if my fingers had been responding to my brain’s instructions, but that was not the case. Nor had I thought to bring any of my own sheet music, so when it came my turn to suggest something, I had to do so from memory. Which, if you know me, is a punchline all by itself.

Fortunately I know a couple. After giggling through “Achey-Breaky Heart” and taking a stab at a Civil War-era folk dirge and Warren Zevon’s “Hula Hula Boys,” we settled on the simple progression of “This Land Is Your Land.” The lyrics were easy enough to find, including the seldom-heard excised verse:

In the squares of the city - In the shadow of the steeple
Near the relief office - I see my people
And some are grumblin' and some are wonderin'
If this land's still made for you and me.

Of course, during the “I see my people” line we each substituted each other’s name for “my.” Much fun was had by all.

His eldest daughter, 7, came out with her own guitar and we proceeded to teach her the chords. After a little bit of that she disappeared and came back out with a violin and successfully performed on command. It was all very impressive.

That was followed by a fabulous dinner prepared my Mrs. TLBS in which even, as God is my witness, the Brussels sprouts were good enough to go back for seconds. (Note to self: I must get that recipe from her!)

There was a short window between the end of dinner and the girls’ bedtime. At the home of Mr. and Mrs. TLBS, that means family game time.

For us, that means last night’s Jon Stewart and maybe a superhero cartoon for The Boy before we chase him off to bed.

I was really beginning to feel like a shitty parent. I sat around with my friend and his kids and played Candy Land and some other game I’d never heard of called “Blocko” or something for half an hour and loved every minute of it. I talked to him about it later, and he said that family board game time was something he had deliberately implemented early on. To my surprise, what he was saying made perfect sense to me.

So when I got back to the new home town, I went out to Target the next day and picked up a copy of Candy Land. Brought it home and The Boy took to it immediately. He plays it by himself when we’re too busy, or it isn’t time yet. (I’ve already decided game time is going to immediately precede bedtime for him for a while. Order. Structure. That kind of thing.)

Tonight he came up to us as bedtime approached and asked hopefully, “Hey, you want to play Candy Land, guys?” He’s never called us “guys” before. It was hilarious. I felt a great debt to TLBS and wondered how I would ever repay it.

I went to check my email and there was a new message from TLBS. He wrote that he’s taught his daughter a bunch of chords since Friday night and she’s kind of overwhelmed… I wrote him back and suggested he focus on just a couple of easy chords and teach her a simple song that she could easily conquer, which ought to motivate her to continue. Of course, I suggested “Achey-Breaky Heart.”

He wrote me back, “That's how we learned the three chords she has been working on -- This Land Is Your Land.  We even sing the relief-office verse together!”

And as much as I want to write a feel-good ending to this happy little story, I can’t escape the fact that, if I hadn’t been there with him and his family, to share actual, reality-based common experiences, I wouldn’t have discovered the great joy that can come with enduring otherwise mind-numbing board games with your kids—for one thing, it’ll make it much easier to introduce him to chess when the time comes.

And my right-winger pal’s daughter’s first song on the guitar wouldn’t have been Woody Guthrie’s left-wing protest anthem, controversial verse and everything.

In the end, you can get a hell of a lot done online, but it isn’t a substitute for being there yet. Not even close.