When we got back upstairs, Older One (12) and Grandma (who was once 12) said they, too, were up for a game. That meant the trash talk started over lunchtime peanut butter sandwiches in the fashion expected of all who have watched too much professional wrestling.
As is apparent from all this, most of the preliminaries to Yahtzee-Mania went smoother than a fresh jar of Skippy.
But by the time Grandma and I cleared the bread carcasses from the kitchen table and made it to the front room, Younger One was in the fetal position in the easy chair, his doe eyes agleam with unshed tears.
It took three heartfelt appeals in my Jedi-trained Grandpa voice to pry from him the hushed confession that it was his brother’s fault.
I only then noticed that the remains of a once-sturdy Lincoln Log cabin were strewn across the carpet.
Asked what was up, Older One said in a voice reminiscent of Steve Martin: “I asked him to let me do something, and he wouldn’t let me!!!”
Because there had only been property damage, I issued the standard “Don’t do that kind of thing to your brother” reprimand so I could return to Younger One, who was by this time saying “no dice” to our Yahtzee plans.
Following a strategy described in a seminar during the recent celebration of the Dayton Peace Accords, I proposed three settlements that were rejected out of hand. I then offered Young One the prestigious and much sought after appointment as the Official Roller of Grandpa’s Dice.
The rainclouds had barely departed when he embraced the power of his new position, declaring that dice would be poured directly from plastic shaking cup into the empty bottom of the game box and that any die falling on the carpet would have to be rolled again into the box.
All recognized it as a sensible way to avoid temptation and conflict and were soon able to engage in deep discussions of Yahtzee strategy.
To wit (or, in this case, to half-wit): After an initial roll of two sixes, two twos and one other number, is it better re-roll all but the sixes in hopes of ending up with a fourth six, thus upping the odds of getting the 63 points required to get the 35-point bonus on the top half of the score sheet?
Or is it better to keep the sixes and twos and re-roll the oddball a couple of times in hopes of that either number and earn 25 points with a full house?
And: Does it all depend on whether we’re early or late in the game?
Among the other dicey considerations is when to try for the 40-point Large Straight, which requires getting one dice each with one through five or two through six. Our game was friendly enough that all celebrated when anyone got the five in a row either on the first, second or third roll. Although we passed up the opportunity, I’d suggest regular players take a moment of this happens to call Door Dash to fetch an order of Happy Family from the nearest Chinese restaurant.
Now to the important part.
So pleased was I that God chose me for the honor of the first Yahtzee that I failed to give my traditional 11-word acceptance speech: “It couldn’t have happened to a nicer or more deserving person.”
Two even less expected things followed. First, Older One politely asked Younger One to roll the dice for him. Second, Younger One agreed, erasing at least momentarily the bitterness generated by the wanton destruction of our 16th president’s childhood home.
It was only after he had also rolled a Yahtzee for Older One that Younger One began to have second thoughts about his place in the grand scheme of things.
Yes, Grandpa and then Older One had thanked him when he rolled them Yahtzees. But they got all the points, and he got none. And that raised the question in his mind about whether he was being appropriately honored.
That festering thought was spoken aloud after Younger One rolled a Yahtzee for Grandma, thus demonstrating his love for her despite his habit of incessantly singing a song about her demise under the hoofs of a reindeer.
Things finally went over the top when – on my last turn – Young One rolled me a second Yahtzee, after which, to the pleasure of all, I did remember to mention that it couldn’t have happened to a nicer or more deserving person.
Younger One then had the audacity to say that however I ran my mouth, he was not only the only person to roll a Yahtzee that day but the only one who hadn’t been awarded a single point for doing it four times.
Some of that is the ugly truth that Grandpa nearly deprived him of the chance of rolling a fourth Yahtzee, even though the first roll produced four threes, leaving two chances to pick up the fifth.
The old goat almost chickened out and so he could try to get three threes in the final two rolls and secure the bonus on the upper half of the score sheet.
It took his Official Roller (who, for the record, is 62 years younger than Grandpa) to goad him into action with a scolding in a tone of voice that clearly labeled the decision as a no-brainer.
Bottom line? Family lore may have more than one version of The Tale of Four Yahtzees.
Grandpa’s likely will celebrate a personal best score of 370 secured by the 100 points awarded for a second Yahtzee on his final roll without mention his chicken heartedness.
Likely Younger One will likely stick to hist story of being the only one rolling Yahtzees that fabled day and had to intimidate a grown (if not mature) man to claim his spot in history.
That leaves Older One to somehow put a positive spin on the destruction of the Lincoln homestead and Grandma to write the lyrics to The Grandma Song, beloved by all grandmothers for its moving chorus: “Sure, I love them, but these guys are hopeless.”
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