“What are you doing out here, grandpa?” Clive exclaimed as he discovered the old man rocking on his chair out on the porch. With slender fingers he turned the pages of a photo album.
The grandson tipped his head to see the images, each a rosy old photo of people in quaint, old-fashioned clothing on a summer’s day outing. “Sit, Sit. C’mon and look at these pictures. Do you notice anything funny?” Beryu Nemzi Nut-paste asked his grandson with raised eyebrows.
Handing him the album, he poked his nose into the page until the goings-on of that transient picnic day became clear. “Why are you all holding wooden hammers?” wondered the boy, then returned the raised eyebrow back at his grandad. “Look over here, and over here. See those balls in the grass, and those little metal half-rings stuck in the ground? It’s a game where you have to hit the balls through the rings … and you win, you see … but people must have forgotten all about it already” the old man joyfully lamented. A sweet memory popped into his head as he gazed down at the picture. That of picnics, and sandwiches made in haste, and a bowl of strawberries that someone would always spill over while they were talking, and not notice until later. “Do you remember that day, grandpa?” Clive asked, instinctively saying anything to break him from his reverie, without the prudence to know he had done just the opposite. “How could I ever forget … There I was. Standing there in that cream blazer. It was just my turn. The ladies were milling about. But I only had eyes for one … hehehe. Waving her arms in front of the ring before I took my shot. I hadn’t done very good up until then. But when I saw my Zanzibar, that blue dress dancing in the wind, what could I have done but make the perfect shot” the elder reminisced as he gripped his knee, squeezing it. “So, you won the game, didn’t you?” Clive asked, already knowing the answer from the anecdotalist would be, and patted him on the shoulder. “Made the perfect shot. Hit it right through the ring I did. They all saw that I won, and I can tell you it wasn’t even close that time. And that’s how your dad was born” he vainly recalled. “How was he born again?” Clive asked very confusedly as he returned the album sliding it into his slender fingers. Beryu leant over once again, looked at his grandson, straight in the eyes, and said, “Croquet, my dear boy. Croquet”.