Losing to Time at Backgammon

+ four more from Fifty | Four

Dear Stirlings,

A quick note to mention that the audio recording of this post is included below and is available for all paid subscribers. Whichever way you subscribe, or accidentally ended up on this page, know that I am very thankful to have you here. Spare time is a precious commodity and I realize how lucky I am if you choose to spend any amount of yours reading Stirred, Not Shaken.

This week, I send you four more micro-stories from my January birthday project, Fifty | Four Vignettes. But first, a note on losing and losing to Time…

Photo by Frédéric Barriol

Time is not Worried

In this corner of Cascadia, recent winds have brought a hint of the best summer weather to come. Warm days have not yet consistently landed — just a few touchdowns here and there. What is consistently landing is the increasing amount of daylight. Oodles and oodles of daylight. So much light that I find myself not instinctively knowing what time of day it is, which is unusual for me. For most of the year, I am spookily accurate when asked by My Beloved, “What time is it?” Without looking at a clock I can blurt out a number that’s within eight minutes or so of the Actual Time of Day.

Not now though. The weeks leading up to and away from the solstices throw me off my game. “What time is it?” — “Uh, I think it’s 5 or so.” No. It’s 7:32 PM and there’s no sunset in sight. I open my eyes thinking it’s 6:10 AM and that I have beat my alarm to the dirty deed of this morning’s wake-up call. No. It’s 4:25 AM and the day is ready to get on with it. Are you? I guess so. There’s no more sleep to be had at this point.

Time. What a player! I’d like to think I could beat Time in a game of Backgammon (it would be close, I’m sure) but Time is too strong, too good at this. Maybe I’ve made a solid start, winning the opening move with a 6-5 roll of the dice. Let’s say I’ve been able to escape from Time’s home board without any casualties, with no checkers sent to the bar. I may even believe that my beautifully stacked checkers keeping Time stuck back where I want it to remain will allow me to win this game. But Time is not worried. You see, Time has this uncanny ability to roll doubles whenever she feels like accelerating her inevitable victory.

“It’s not whether you win, but how you play the game.” Who said that? It’s not true. Not when it comes to backgammon. I prefer to win. Maybe it’s true about everything else.

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Mothers, Fathers, Contemplating Eternity and the Greatest Quarterback Who Never Played

Four More from Fifty | Four

Nine of Spades

The Nine of Spades does not look her age; counts steps of stairs when she takes them; does not use bookmarks; never forgets a face; has failed every Meyers-Briggs test she has been asked to take; wears black toothpick jeans to the symphony; is the greatest quarterback who has not been allowed to play.

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Into the Frying Pan

Fleur cracked one egg, then another, which broke upon impact.

“Stupid egg!” she said.

Then, unexpectedly, her daughter knocking at the door; face swollen with sadness.

Fleur didn’t ask. She let her daughter weep. At the kitchen table where her birthday cakes had been lit; where all her youthful wishes had been made.

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Hand Map

The visiting artist asked the students to draw a map of their personal history using the image of a hand.

34 sketches returned: birthday cake knuckles, railroad track scars; rivers like veins with a house on the left bank. And one with fingers closed, titled: My Father’s Heart is a Fist in the Wall.

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Correlated Questions

She wondered sometimes whether eternity might exist after all. And if so, what does it lead to? Even more eternity? A black hat of endless scarves to be pulled out?

Maybe so.

The day, though—this day—could not possibly answer that question. This day offered only wind and ocean and trees: different answers.

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As always, I love to hear your thoughts on these stories, poems and posts; or about whatever in the world is currently shaking your tree.

-Stirred in the Woods,

{| AC