For T, who just went to bed on the last night of her three-year-old-hood. She's been aware of it for days - telling us each morning, "There's only two more days when I'm going to be three." Or other numbers, depending on the day. Today there was jubilation, as this was her last morning, her last lunch, her last supper, etc., as a three-year-old. We, meanwhile, ahve been mourning the same transition. For her, as a joke, but in our hearts, very much for real. Three-year-old T is all but gone, asleep in her little room. Tomorrow we'll wake up and there'll be some four-year-old. It's sad.
But she's going out with a bang this week. Thursday, Tie's daycare, which has recently freed itself of the clutches of Childcare of the Berkshires and thus become a far, far happier place, celebrated its newfound liberty by inviting Otha Day, a local drummer affiliated with the college and whose name is very commonly misspelled by otherwise well-meaning people, put on a workshop of several days, culminating in a huge jam session, which Mami and Q attended. Here's how it looked from the ground:
And here's what Otha saw, more or less:
Following the performance, the kids sat in dazed rapture and ate of the goodness of the land, brought forth by the assorted adoring parents for the day's festivities:
This weekend also saw the third time that Milke of Amnesia, our Team Trivia...team, took the field against Williamstown's best and brightest at the Berkshire Nursing Families Team Trivia Night. Here are the excited competitors, steadying themselves for the competition with Janneke's cocktails, named, of course, Milk of Amnesia. In this photograph, Janneke, expert in Russian culture, literature, language, and history, explains just how long Rasputin's hair was, using a teammate as a model. (Note the stickers sported by each member, provided by T and procalaiming our intellectual superiority. They say, "I can Read"):
Across the kitchen, the science specialists, Mark and Ronadh, were bringing us all up to date on the latest in the geosciences, in which both are expert:
While Brad and Betsy, PhDs in music and education, respectively, do some expounding of their own:
Leaving me, the only non-PhD in the group. The wild card, as it were - the man with the Degree from the School of Hard Knocks. I mulled over the odd little facts gleaned from a lifetime of swashbuckling, of both the literal and the metaphorical variety. I knew we would need something extra - book-learnin' just wouldn't be enough.
Here we are in line to register. Numerous people made friendly comments about our uniforms, many having seen them last year, when they carried us to victory on the strength of the last question. Others, though, seem put off, and walk on by us without saying anything at all, steely-eyed and determined. You could cut the tension with a knife:
Once inside, we discovered that our table, #15, was located RIGHT in front of the emcees' podium. A place of honor, no doubt, reserved for the two-time returning champions. The trophy had made its way from mark and Ronadh's that same night, and been placed at the front to inspire us all.
On the way in, though, Brad had sent shock waves of remorse and regret through all our souls when he realized, too late!, that we should have bought a seventh shirt, and clothed the trophy in it. It was a stroke of genius. But the only way to make it come true, this crazy dream, would be to win the whole shebang again. More than any of us dared hope, I feared.
Indeed, many, many were hoping for our downfall. Mostly in a playful way - there was even one team that came in uniform!, playing along in the spirit in which our own duds were intended. We got much such positive energy from friends and acquaintances as we went to collect our dinners from the buffet line and bought our drinks. But there were indeed those whose energy was less than positive, including an older woman who simply turned to say to me, as I laughed about past victories with a friendly stranger: "Well, you're not going to win this year." I began to praise her for her energy, trash-talk back with her playfully, but she turned her back and stomped away before I could get much out.
I returned to our table. "We are the litmus paper of goodness, and of ill," I said to my teammates. "Dark and dreary people react to us in dark and dreary ways, while folk of good cheer see themselves in us, and their hearts are gladdened." The others nodded solemnly, then whooped to the ceiling like banshees and tossed back a Sam Adams.
Which had been bought for us! Twice, anonymous benefactors bought us a round of the golden nectar, which we celebrated in photographical form:
At another point, I sneaked back to the bar and, urged on by my teammates, bought a round on the sly for the other table that had uniforms on. I looked at what they appeared to be drinking - two Heinekens, a Sam Adams, and a couple of white wines. Figuring they'd like to keep on with the same, I left instructions with the bartender and scurried back to the table.
Where we began answering trivia questions like our lives depended on it. Sixty seconds per question, five per round. A total of seven rounds. Read on, friend, and tremble, for such was the challenge laid out before us:
What was the first American broadcast television program to show an interracial kiss?
What information can be had about a person by scanning them with a Brannock Device?
In the Mel Brooks movie "Silent Movie", one actor speaks. Who is it?
What Oscar winner was Tommy Lee Jones' roommate at Harvard?
Four Presidents were born in the same county in Massachusetts. What is the name of that county?
Who was the most recent of the four?
What essential item was produced for the Civil War in mills in Clarksburg, MA?
What was the first soundtrack to go gold as a record?
What is Elvis Costello's real name?
It went on and on. And after seven rounds, all of us were exhausted. Look upon this crowd and see the suffering:
Indeed, our spirits were flagging, and we were wondering if we'd have enough in us for the final question. When the bartender approached our table and began to plop drinks down before us - a Heineken; another Heineken; a Sam Adams; a white wine' and another white wine. The other uniformed table! They were on to us! We grabbed the drinks like they were life-giving water in a scorching intellectual desert, and thus were brought back to form. What goes around, my friends, definitely comes around.
We listened to the scores as they were read off: Milk of Amnesia was in fourth place, with 48 points. The top team was five points ahead. The last question: Put a list of 6 historical events in correct chronological order.
Teams had three minutes to answer, and could wager any number of points, including up to all of them, on their answer. If the people ahead of us wagered everything and won, we could not win; if we wagered less than everything and were right, a team from behind might catch up. We had no choice. No matter how sure we might be of our answer, we resolved to bet it all.
These were the events:
Communist Manifesto first published
1812 overture first performed
The Louisiana Purchase
Maine becomes a state
First transcontinental railroad finished
The voyage of the Beagle
Milk of Amnesia sprang into action. Mark knew the date of the Beagle; Janneke knew that the 1812 Overture was a trick, that it was actually written and then performed at the end of the century. The Communist manifesto and the transcontinental railroad were troublesome; also the Louisiana Purchase and Maine were problematic - we knew they were close, but weren't sure how close, or in which order. To be honest, I sat this one out, pretty much. I had done my work earlier - a lot of the questions above were ones I remembered, because I had known them. I had contributed greatly to the 48, but the rest would not be up to me - this wasn't my strength. My benefit to the team now was that I knew when to keep quiet and let the experts do their work. I'd seen them do it before - it was a sight to behold.
We handed in our answers and clinked our glasses. "No matter what happens," we decided, "we've got guts." We didn't say "guts", but the same meaning was pretty much put across.
We sweated and cringed and squealed through the reading of the final order, and calculated just how many tables, and which, in the sea of competition behind us were shouting jubilantly. It was tough to tell. To be honest, I can't even remember the final order. All I know is that this was the result:
Out of deference to my teammates, I will not post the video of them dancing their victory dance. Today. (I haven't put music to it yet.)
Now, if you'll excuse me: I have to see a man about a shirt.
