|
Jan 31, 2003 Last Saturday, we came home from my niece’s fifth birthday party to find that we had no electricity. We were stuffed full of meatballs and cake and wanted only to relax. Maybe sit on the couch and watch TV. But it wasn’t to be. These sorts of things don’t really bother me much. If it’s one thing I know, it’s that I don’t have control over very much. In this case, the electric company. I found the toll-free number and reported the outage. I never actually talked to a person, but I maneuvered through the maze of menus -- quite adeptly, I might add -- and let the computer know we had no power. It was well past five o’clock. The sun was getting low and the house was getting dark. We got out some candles and the oil lamp and prepared to make the best of it. We hung out in the living room for a while and watched the sun set. My wife, Gretchen, and I sat on the couch digesting while the kids practiced demolishing things and breaking the sound barrier. Isaac, our six-year-old, seemed to think that because we couldn’t see him so well, he had to scream every single word. Audrey, our 11-month- old, who is an expert noise-maker in her own right, seemed creatively inspired by the lack of electricity. She devised new and ingenious ways to knock over lamps and to find (and eat) dust bunnies. Gretchen and I were very pleased. So pleased, in fact, that we decided it was time for Audrey to go to bed. Gretchen carried her upstairs. Audrey screamed her (dis)approval the whole way. She’d been having a great time. Thankfully, the inspiration that Audrey had discovered in the lack of electricity found its way to me and Isaac. Isaac’s creative contribution was to build a fire. My creative contribution was that we should play chess. So we did both. We don’t mess around when we’ve decided to be creative. So, like a creative team, we gathered all of the necessary ingredients: newspaper, cardboard, wood, chess board, chess pieces and matches. We stockpiled it all in the family room. Then, we layered the paper, cardboard and wood inside the fireplace. At this point, I took over. I lit a match, touched it to the paper and sat back with Isaac on the rug. We watched the flames leap and rise as the shadow and light danced across the chessboard and sparkled on the gold tops of the chess pieces. We got the board set up, but before the game began, I got us both a beverage. I got myself wine and Isaac juice. So there we were -- two “men” with drinks playing chess by firelight. I was excited at the opportunity to teach Isaac how to play. I had learned how to play when I was in grade school but really came to appreciate chess in college. I valued the fact that everything was done in the open. Even the most complicated strategy must be played out in plain view of your opponent. There are no secrets. If you’re alert and patient and poignantly aggressive, you’ve got a fair chance of winning. Because Isaac was already familiar with checkers, he understood the basics of chess: capture your opponent’s pieces and win. It took me a few minutes to explain what the pieces were and how they moved. He nodded enthusiastically, seemingly entranced by the warm firelight and the glimmering kings and queens and bishops. “What’s a bishop?” Isaac asked. “It’s sort of like a priest’s boss,” I responded stupidly. Isaac, with an apparently innate understanding of hierarchies seemed pleased with this definition. “What’s a pawn?” He asked. “They’re just like soldiers,” I said. Later, when I explained how a pawn could be exchanged for another piece upon reaching the end of the board, Isaac said that pawns must be “magic soldiers.” I told him that made perfect sense. Eventually, we began playing. He quickly mastered all of the movements and began to understand when a piece was “threatening” or “protecting” another piece. He actually made a couple of really good moves, which were always accompanied by warlike sound effects. As he pushed a bishop diagonally across the board, he made a tank-like rumbling. Or when moving a pawn, he would crackle like a gun. About halfway through the game, Isaac became bored with the strict movements and rules and decided that we needed some new pieces. He had a few toys nearby -- a rubber skull (about the size of a plum) and a little fishing pole-- that were quickly added to his side. I learned that these pieces had magical powers that could change from one move to the next. Before long, we were no longer playing chess, but some sort of chaotic, wizardly game -- made all the more strange in the flicker of firelight. The game quickly degenerated into utter confusion and I excused myself to the kitchen so I could call the phone company and check the status of the power outage. I mussed his hair and walked through the darkened house to the phone. I punched through the menu options and found out that the electric company was -- and I quote -- “redefining the scope of work”. With that phrase rebounding around in my head, I made my way back. I stopped at the edge of the family room and watched Isaac wage his tiny battles. He was sitting cross-legged, hunched over the board, utterly intent. The fire beginning to burn out behind him. I realized that raising children is a lot like “redefining the scope of work”. Over and over again, you ponder the joys and frustrations and fears of being a good parent -- hoping all the while there’s enough time to finish your job before the fire burns out. ------------ Jeff Milligan lives in West Sadsbury Township, Pennsylvania with his wife and two children. He falls in the following demographic categories: Age 25 - 34. Race: Whitish. Email Jeff: JIam41@aol.com Comment on this column in the forum. ------------ |
||||||
|
|
|||||||
|
