In my home, I am often placed in charge of the family’s collection of board games. As the family librarian and game master (i.e. guy who cares enough to read the instructions), it is often my job to teach others how to play and provide structure to our mad mob of gaming misfits.
Playing as a ‘rule czar’ can be difficult. My siblings prefers improvisation over planning and action in lieu of reading rule books; thus, I’m often explaining rules and strategies during or prior to a match. Things can get heated when I explain the ‘cans’ and the ‘cannots’ of the game. For example, in D&D, Shannon’s elf, Wizzledix, may be canonically a smart dresser, but a critical failure on an intelligence check means that the party cannot discover the secret passage to the treasure room. In Settlers of Catan, Rodney may wish to exchange two sheep for one ore with the bank but can only do so if his town is built on the appropriate port. In Exploding Kittens, you cannot Nope a Defuse card. In Monopoly, rolling doubles three times in a row sends you to jail. In Scrabble, proper names do not count. Pictionary . . . . well, we do not play Pictionary anymore.
The list goes on . . . I try my best to guide everyone through a game that no one cares enough to prep for but that everyone cares enough not to lose at. For their part, the game is meant to be fun so they don’t take it very seriously. However, if — like me — you enjoy exploring alternate pathways to the goal, adjusting your strategies as you play, you can win more than not. As a result, my play-style has earned me the title of ‘Biggest Cheater’ in the family, and amiable games can lose focus or devolve into amiable shouting matches. That is, we’re all still smiling, but simultaneously we’re all very very loud.
The Christmas markets in Prague. The Vatican in Rome. The road to Hana in Maui. Glacier National Park in Alaska. And then . . .our dining room table, a monster repository in one hand. A d20 in the other.
After our Ireland and Scotland trip last summer, Mom and Dad are scouring the globe for our next international familial excursion. Lots of different places are being considered, and my own modest suggestion largely has been ignored.
It’s hard to admit that you live in your own little world. It’s even harder to admit that you’d give anything to share the inside of that world with others, even pass on a trip Europe. Admittedly, I would never sacrifice an opportunity to travel — I’m not that ungrateful — but . . . given the possibility, vacationing amid the arcane forests and floating cities within my own headspace for a week or two would prove delightful. Take a flight on the back of a dragon, investigate the ten-thousand and one mysteries of the Forest of Rid, drink mulled wine while sailing up the realm’s largest waterfall into the clouds and the domains of giants.
People of my generation have a habit of collecting ‘experiences’ in the same way my nephew collects Pokemon. They visit various concerts, beaches, and hostels from around the world, and then hurl their Instagram photos at like-minded travelers until one of them faints.
My philosophy is decidedly . . . cheaper if not equally psychotic: Save a plane ticket; buy a book. Or, you don’t always need to see the world when a hundreds of worlds already exist inside your head. But . . . it does get lonely sometimes. I wouldn’t mind a friend with whom to travel this dreamscape.
Sharing dreams with others is risky though. Ridicule may cause it to shatter. Indifference and neglect withers. So you offer subtle snippits during your daily routines in the hope of steering conversations away from politics, cost of living, and sports:
Driving over a bridge on the way to grocery store: “Wouldn’t it be incredible if a giant tentacle rose from under this bridge right now, grab a car, and drag it to the depths . . .”
Carrying bags of groceries from store to car: ” . . . a pocket dimension. That’d be my super power. Store all kinds of things inside. And then release them at supersonic speed if I needed to, you know . . . skewer something.”
Examining grocery store receipt while sorting groceries: “Ever consider how awesome it’d be to simply walk across the lawn and discover treasure? Like, you go out to grab the mail, complete a word-scrabble written in the gravel by lawn gnomes, and then return to the living room with fifty-bucks worth of precious metals in your pocket.”
Draining bottles of cheap cab bought from grocery store: “. . . come with meeee, and catch a Hefflalump. Sit with me on a muddy clump . . . We’ll sing a song of days gone byyyyyy . . .”
No one in my family understands how to speak softly. When asking a sibling ‘Please, pass the salt?’ during dinner, the question and response were always a few decibels above a foghorn. This habit is redoubled during gaming sessions which we actively infest with distraction and noise. If this is some preemptive stealth tactic, it is lost on me.
Take last evening for instance: Kevin, Ryan and I were lining colorful plastic trains across a map of the United States while teaching my niece and nephew how to play Ticket to Ride. We relinquish the dining table (now clean, spotless, and quiet) to setup our game in Ryan’s small family room, the sole room on the first floor with a television. Initially, this is not a problem as a PGA tournament is underway and — apart from commercials — the commentators are whispering.
“Oh, what a beautiful shot . . .” the announcer begins as the camera pans out to an airborne white dot, visible against a grove of evergreens.
“I can’t stand golf,” Mom announces, entering the room. The other ladies trail close behind her, followed by five or six children who begin jumping on the couch like an ersatz trampoline. They take turns tumbling onto cushions laid onto the floor, spooking the dog, who runs from the room. One catapults into Mom’s lap, nearly spilling her wine, and the gang are driven off the furniture.
Like ants beneath an overturned rock, the children disperse. One upturns a basket of magnetic building blocks and dumps them onto the floor. Another pushes across the carpet a Playschool corn popper, exploding like an eternal firecracker. A third, spying a fly near the window, removes his shoe and attacks the glass. Finally, the smallest crawls under the table and makes camp amid trucks of adult legs and feet.
Frantically, Mom presses buttons on Ryan’s Roku, as the players converge on the 18th green. I begin dealing out colored train cards to Ryan, Kevin, Killian, Ruru, and finally myself. A small imp-like hand reaches from beneath the table and grabs at my game pieces. I swat it away and continue dealing.
On the couch behind me, my two sisters, Katie and Mary, discuss future housing projects. My mother accidentally presses the Netflix button on the Roku controller and scrolls through the row of “Just Released” movies. A scowl forms as she scans the titles.
“Ryan, you have horrible taste in movies,” she criticizes, scrolling past several horror flicks.
“Those are new releases, Mom,” Ryan frowns. “Scroll down to Favorites . . .”
“Favorites?” Mom asks, peering at the remote as if it will respond to her question. She clicks a few buttons, playing a movie trailer on the screen.
Tense music booms from the television. A few of my nieces squeal as a long haired girl on the TV spider-crawls across a rickety cabin floor. Tiny feet sprint from the living room. Ryan huffs and gives chase, knocking over his chair in the process. Kevin opens Spotify on his cell phone and clicks on his Jimmy Buffet playlist. “Fruitcakes” reverberates through the table, waking the imp resting beneath, who uses this opportunity to try grabbing for my cell phone. I offer it a corn chip, which it accepts as tribute.
Ryan returns with two children under his arms, their hands clasped tight over their eyes. He takes the Roku control from Mom and presses a few buttons, banishing the long-haired girl from the television screen. Kevin and I begin picking up train cards and laying plastic trains onto the board. Ryan switches the app to HBO Max and streams the movie, Twister.
Ever the amateur meteorologist, he sits his eldest daughter onto his lap and proceeds to lecture them about wind speed, storm rankings, and the possibility of a tornado touchdown on the East Coast. When Bill Paxton arrives on the screen with his character’s fiancee, my nephew, Killian, is beginning to lose interest in the game. He sneaks out of the room to grab a cookie from the counter. “Fins to the left!” Jimmy shouts from Kevin’s phone.
“You see, kids, tornados are ranked from F0 to F5, with F5s being the most dangerous . . .”
I finish my turn and leave the table to throw some popcorn into the microwave. Ryan interrupts his own lecture to assert that Bill Paxton is the greatest actor of all time. This statement incites Rodney, sitting in the corner rocking chair, to look up from his cell phone.
“Huh . . . Matt Damon is the one and only,” he grumbles. “I don’t even know who Bill Paxton is. But . . . who’s the blonde?”
“Helen Hunt,” Ryan replies, bouncing his daughter Annie on his knee. “I had such a crush on her when I was a kid.”
“It’s hard not to find any girl in a white tank top attractive,” Kevin returns, placing two trains between Saint Louis and Nashville. Mom scowled.
“My sons are such idiots,” she sighs.
Katie and Mary are discussing home school programs when I return with the popcorn. Two of my plastic trains are missing, but after thrusting a few pieces of popcorn below the table, a hand returns the trains to my pile.
We call Killian back to the table for his turn, while Ryan returns to his lecture about F3s and F4s. Killian picks up two new train cards, adds them to his pile and then runs back to the kitchen for another cookie. Ruru is next but she found some comic books in my book bag and had begun reading. I lightly shake her until the spell is broken and she returns to the game. I consider my route between Seattle and New York and opt to connect Portland with Salt Lake City for 15 pts. When I turn around the bowl of popcorn has disappeared under the table. On the screen, Cary Elwes makes his appearance as the well-funded arrogant tornado chaser, arch-nemesis of Bill Paxton. Ryan pauses his lecture to catch his breath, and Rodney fills the momentary silence to extol the greatness of Matt Damon.
“No other actor even comes close . . .”
At this point, Kevin blocks my route from Little Rock to Nashville, and I’m suddenly losing the game. Killian’s and Ruru’s trains have likewise surrounded Dallas, leaving me no way to connect the city with New York. I relinquish the 11 pt destination ticket as a loss and refocus on connecting East and West coasts. My niece and nephew once again slip away from the movie and the boardgame. With only 35 points, Ryan’s interest wanes as well; his attention drifts more and more toward tornadoes, weather patterns, and the cinematic achievements of Bill Paxton.
“Weird Science, Apollo 13, Aliens, Vertical Limit . . . Forget Damon. Paxton’s the real genius!”
Behind me, twin water spouts are carrying off a cow on the TV screen. Rodney grumbles that “the only living actor worth a damn is named Daaay-Mon!” From Kevin’s phone, Jimmy leads into “Tin Cup Chalice” with a story about Key West. Mom is wondering aloud if ‘that guy right there’ is the same boy from Ferris Bueller. Nobody answers, and she asks again.
“Kev . . . Kev! Hey, is that guy from Ferris Bueller?”
“Uh . . . who?” Kev asks.
“That guy!” Mom says pointing to the television.
“Who?! Truman Capote?”
“No, not the hippie, the other one.”
“Who? The thin one?”
“Yes. Him.”
“That’s Bill Paxton.”
“Greatest actor in the world!” Ryan shouts.
“Matt Damon!” Rodney shouts back.
“No, the guy who’s driving that truck. The grey one!”
“Oh,” Kevin said, suddenly aware at the mention of trucks. “Yeah, he’s Cameron. From Ferris Bueller.”
“I knew it,” Mom sighs and sinks back into the sofa.
Throughout this exchange, Katie and Mary discuss adding an outdoor patio onto their respective houses. Killian has abandoned the game entirely and is creeping downstairs with a Nerf gun. Ruru likewise has given up, and is reading aloud to her little sister, Lucy, on the couch behind me: “Ladies and gen-gentlemen of Got-am, you have eaten well . . .” The line causes me to look back and stare at my niece’s choice of reading material when Kevin places another train between me and New York. Well, there goes my last route. I sigh and add another two trains to the board.
Suddenly, something clatters next to me. The table imp shoves the now empty popcorn bowl into adjacent folding chair and burps with satisfaction from the darkness below . . .
A full stomach and good night’s sleep is the best medicine for the eyes. And carrots apparently. You see the world better without haze of exhaustion and miss less when you’re not yawning every three seconds. Thus, our second day began with several observations about travel, Ireland, and availability of certain beverages. Before delving into our adventures outside of Dublin, I wanted to post the discussions which kick-started our morning.
The morning our visit to The Merry Ploughboy, Rodney and I packed up our suitcases as we prepared to leave Dublin. Greg and the hotels had a truly elegant system of loading twenty-four sets of suitcases onto the bus, hassle-free. Our group would deposit luggage outside our doors by 7:45 every morning. Each bag was strapped with a bright yellow belt provided by the tour group. The hotel staff would collect our strap-marked baggage from outside our rooms and then deliver everything to Greg and the bus, while we ate breakfast. Backpacks and carry-ons were on own responsibility, which was fine with me since I liked to keep my laptop and other electronics close at hand.
More frequent travelers may find my appreciation here a bit naive or silly. I don’t know. Typically, it is my job and that of my brothers to haul my parents’ luggage up and down several floors when checking into and out of a hotel. Afterwards, Mom would have us scour the rooms for anything left behind: a spare iPad cable or a rogue wallet. With a family of our size, packing and unpacking would take hours; thus, any system that kept us organized and reduced the time hefting luggage up and down staircases — Mom is fearful of elevators — was welcome.
And the yellow belt was so useful that we continued to utilize it when we flew into Scotland. With a party of twenty-four, it made grabbing your stuff from the baggage claim much more straightforward.
I decided to add chapter numbers to these posts about our international adventures. Several of my siblings, whom I coerced invited to read my blog, suggested that it might help them stay up-to-date, when I add a new entry. Hopefully, going forward, I won’t divide one day — albeit one very long day — into three posts again, so that should help. Note: Regardless of anything he may write in the comment section, everything written here concerning Rodney is accurate.
When I win the lotto and build my mansion on the moon, this is what I’m basing my home library upon.
For a bibliophile, it doesn’t get much better than the Book of Kells and Trinity College library in Dublin. The extensive illustrations, decorations, and calligraphy that grace the various pages is beautiful to behold. The Celtic knotting that twists and rotates about the page, often forming a single letter that opens a gospel or merging with an illustration of angels, animals, and mythological creatures. And that doesn’t mention the incredible calligraphy of the Biblical text, which I believe is made all the more elegant as a contrast against the dark tan hue of the vellum pages, and . . .
“That’s nice, Uncle Murph,” my niece Kelsey yawned. “When are we leaving?”
“We have another hour here,” I sighed, reading a display about the Columban monks, who toiled hour upon hour to transcribe and illuminate the four Gospels of the New Testament to create the Book of Kells. “Look over here! This wall describes all the various animal illustrations found in the book. The picture of the horse looks pretty weird, right?”
“I think that’s a dog,” she said after a long stare. “A green and blue dog.”
“No, the hounds are on the right side, chasing each other in a circle,” I motioned. “Like a Norse Jormungandr or Midgard serpent circle, which . . .”
I received a look that halted my tangent into Norse mythology.
“It’s an illustration of an animal chasing and biting itself . . . Look! That’s a man riding a horse there, and the green and blue . . . er, blob is a lion, I think.”
“Is it spitting out a fireball? Or piece of corn?”
“No. Er . . . yes? Maybe . . Honestly, I have no idea.”
“Whatever,” Kelsey shrugged. “Can we leave now? I’m tired.”
St. Patrick’s Cathedral . . . one of the better shots from the bus.
“Good morning guys,” the bus driver introduced himself. “You can call me Greg. This is the Murphey party, right?”
Donning a shirt and tie, Greg introduced himself while he loaded our luggage onto the bus. He was tall ruddy-faced man with the physique of a retired linebacker, large but stocky. My great-grandfather, Pop Murphey, was a small thin man and by association I had pictured most Irishmen with a similar stature, like Barry Fitzgerald in The Quiet Man. At six foot, Greg was more John Wayne than Fitzgerald.
I was curious about his accent. His voice was deep and rumbled a bit as he talked. Yet, as he relayed folklore and history on our long drives between cities and landmarks, he spoke fast and easily, like someone singing a well-known tune. I’m told that this manner of speech is common in southern Ireland near County Cork. I know this, because he told us so himself.
He also had a habit of inserting ‘guys’ into all of his sentences.
“On my last tour, guys, I had a group that didn’t know each other very well,” he said. “You all are family then, are you not?”
“More or less,” Rodney replied.
“Friends and family,” my sister-in-law Tiffany answered as we gathered our baggage before the bus.
“Well, that’s good,” Greg nodded. “It helps to waive the introductions, then. Go ahead, guys, and leave your suitcases here. I’ll take care of ’em but take any smaller bags onto the bus.”
Greg went about stowing the thirty pieces of luggage and golf clubs into the undercarriage while we proceeded to board the vehicle, our fifty-foot mobile home for the next ten days in Ireland. The silver chrome of the bus’s plating blended and swirled with the gloom inhabiting the sky above, making the bus seem taller or larger than it probably was. Still, if it was going to shuttle our group around Ireland, it’d need to accommodate quite a few people. I spied Dad eying it up as a replacement for the family van.
There’s a sense of regret that settles in your stomach days before a long vacation to the British Isles. To some extent, in 2022, this is natural. After all, you’re leaving home, a place of safety, for an unknown place with unknown threats. After two years of reporters, politicians, and major celebrities lecturing you upon the dire risks of walking any further than the kitchen fridge, travel outside the state line or overseas can seem a bit daunting.
Worry and anxiety creep into your packing first. Your suitcase transforms into a collection of excess underwear and socks for . . . well, just in case. International weather and your local digestive system can be inconsistent even in the best of times and with the most delicious of foods. Thus, it’s prudent to have back up. For, though every street stands in the world sell souvenir shirts, souvenir undergarments are a little kinky for that medieval cathedral or national monument. Then again, from what I know of The Tudors, maybe it isn’t kinky enough . . .
My brother texted the family after meeting his allergist: “Doctor advises that I self-quarantine myself. My tests indicate that I’m allergic to everything.”
“For how long?” my Mom asks.
“Basically for the next forty years,” he replies back with an image of his test results. The lab listed every tree, plant and pollen found on the East Coast and sure enough, Pat’s immune system had gone to DEFCON 1 after reacting to each and every one.
I myself am so highly allergic to dust that the act of cleaning my bookcase can leave me sick and dying for days afterwards. The fact that 20-50% of dust particles is comprised of dead skin is significant here as it provides a biological ‘out’ – as it were – for canceling plans on a Friday night.
“Sorry, can’t go out tonight. Turns out I’m allergic to people. Maybe another time . . . when my DNA improves or you’re no longer human.”
“So you’re saying that you won’t be social until what . . ? A zombie apocalypse?”
“Yes . . . “
“Wouldn’t you just attack all the human-turned-zombies with baseball bats and stuff then?”
“Again, yes.”
“So essentially you’re saying that — due to ‘allergies’ — you won’t interact with others until it becomes socially acceptable to bludgeon the human population with blunt objects.”
“Since we’re friends, I’ll make it quick.”
It’s fictional conversations like this that help me survive lines at the supermarket.
Warning:This is a geek-out-centric post. Normally, I try to avoid any in-depth discussions of my various fandoms out of respect to my family, who — I’m told — don’t really get it. However, I enjoyed the alternative story lines presented here so much that I exclaimed ‘The Hell with it!” and wrote it up anyway. If you’re like my parents and don’t really care about Batman, my apologies.
“I just don’t see why they need to make another Batman movie,” Ryan shouted from behind a hillock of crushed crab shells. “Like why can’t they make more movies featuring other DC heroes?”
My family shouts during discussions. This is in no way a reflection of their mood but their investment in the topic. A loud dinner table suggests interest where silence forebodes boredom or exhaustion. Summer nights during a crab feast, where everyone is sucking on crab legs and draining cans of cheap beer, the atmosphere is raucous and full of laughter.
I think this October I’m going to devote myself to short stories from this stack . . .
It’s difficult to discuss bibliophile problems with someone, who believes most fantasy authors are drug addicts. And that the fantastic worlds, which they create, are bred via LSD-style hallucinations, opium dreams, and rogue mushrooms.
The fact that this assumption isn’t entirely untrue just makes it all the more annoying.
Thus, the swift parental rejection for suggested home renovation projects surprised no one.
Construct more bookshelves for my various libraries? No. Why don’t you get rid of some of your books?
Establishing an isolated reading nook near the fireplace for the winter? No. Why do you need to read alone AND by the fire?
Crafting a secret passageway into a hidden DnD game room? Seriously? That’s weird. No and never.
Let’s contend with these issues one at a time, okay? First off, you can never have too many books and getting rid of books . . . well, it’s unheard of. I’d sooner clear out my clothes and off this precious space to my shirts and socks than sack my collection of Sherlock Holmes pastiches or volumes of Fairy Tail.
Reading nooks are awesome, and awesome things are necessary in a home. There’s no refuting the logic here. It’s basically a geometric proof in itself.
Finally, what’s a home without a secret passageway through an antique wardrobe or rotating bookcase? Think of the resell value on the house if the realtor hints at the possibility of a hidden gaming room behind the bookshelf in the library! It’s like printing your own money!
The ideas keep coming! Who knows what cutting remarks might ascend from my critics’ vitriolic maws if I had suggested an enclosed slide from the third floor to the basement? In this day and age, I have vision and the rest of the world wears shades.
Murphey's Pub 