Chicken Bones avoided the game. It was stored in the basement, next to her chalkboard and her Barbies. Whenever her dad asked her to play, she tried. But with every flick of her bony finger, she missed the checker and slammed her nail against the oak octagon. It was stupid. Why did her dad love it so much? What did he do differently? His fingers could flip without a flinch. His checkers knocked hers flying and he always triumphed with that final land in the centre hole. Apparently there were rules and points, but how could she possibly learn them while her finger throbbed and her cheeks burned? Stupid Crokinole. Stupid game. She sulked off and her dad shrugged his shoulders as they reached stalemate. He found other players and she conjured up new ideas for the board.
Chicken Bones was intrigued by the eight angles and eight sides of the wooden base. It was the perfect floor plan for a miniature modern home. Unlike her own house, which was a boring rectangular bungalow, the octagon was wild and unexpected. She gathered her plastic doll furniture and sorted out the rooms along the lines of the board. With no right angles, the tiny couch slanted one way and the teeny beds veered off another. The ditch around the perimeter was a glamorous circular driveway for her Dinky cars. And the centre dip could hold a pretend pond or a minuscule Christmas tree.
Chicken Bones never imagined that she would grow up to buy her own modern home that had one little octagon window and an octagonal spiral staircase! One that she would climb daily, carrying groceries or a briefcase or a newborn grandchild.
Chicken Bones didn’t know that she would watch her dad teach the game to friends, neighbours, kids, grandkids and great-grandkids. To international students and visiting Australians. And later, to residents at his personal care home. And she never expected that he would continue to play after the unfortunate snowblower incident which took several pieces of his right hand. And even after his dementia stole other abilities.
Chicken Bones certainly never considered the idea that one day her dad would be gone. And then her mom.
And the old board would be left to Chicken Bones’ youngest child. And that her youngest child would teach his children how to play Crokinole. And send her pictures over the phone so she could see them score and laugh as they learned their great-grandpa’s favourite game.
Chicken Bones did not plan to save her brittle doll furniture for over sixty years, but she did. So that heavy octagon could still be a dollhouse, too. Though not quite so modern.
Play your own way!
Love,
Conni aka Chicken Bones
(With thanks to Jim Barrault for giving me my perfect nickname when I was a scrawny newborn baby.)
December 2023
