49. Minesweeper
I used to love playing this computer game. For those who don’t know what it is, and for those who might have forgotten, the objective of Minesweeper is to make it through a grid of gray squares without being blown up by hidden bombs, 10 to be exact — although the higher levels have 40 and 100 bombs. HA!
So, how do you traverse the board without stumbling upon a landmine? You don’t — not for a long while if your name is Sheryll O’Brien.
The opening move on Minesweeper is a crapshoot — you’ll either hit a bomb or you won’t. If you don’t, you will be given hints as to what your next move should or should not be. A series of numbers will appear on the board around the move you just made. The numbers range from 1 to 5 and they let you know how many landmines are touching the square you just cleared. For example, if you click on a square and you reveal the number 3, that lets you know there are three landmines touching your square. When you think you know where a bomb is located, you put a flag onto the space as a reminder not to click on it, then you continue playing the game.
Minesweeper is challenging — for me anyway. If you’d asked me a couple of weeks ago — before the whole Wordle dustup, I would have suggested I suck at Minesweeper because it involves numbers. But, thanks to a certain sister-in-law, who will remain nameless in this blog (Kathy Gaffney, the She Devil), I no longer have the luxury of thinking numbers are my only shortfall. Empirical evidence is now overwhelming — I suck at computerized games with numbers and games with words. Give me a deck of cards and I’ll beat-your-ass at Pitch or Poker or Gin Rummy, or, or, or — but don’t bother me with computerized games — please — I’m dying — that ought to be enough punishment.
I taught Hadley how to play Minesweeper a few years ago. I use the term ‘taught’ very loosely. I explained the rules, then went about getting my ass blown to smithereens — over and over and over as I tried to show her how to play the game. Hadley caught onto Minesweeper pretty quickly and moved the field with confidence — counting out spaces — throwing up flags — and getting nearly to the end of each game before she found herself blown to bits. At the end of the day, even she found the last sequences difficult.
So. There.
My girl used to sit on my lap when we played, and while we played we chit-chatted about whatever thing popped into her little head — a trip to the playground or an episode of PJ Masks — it didn’t matter what we chatted about, it mattered that it was MammyGrams and Hadley time.
The other day, she hopped onto her bench that is permanently set beside my chair now and asked if we could play Minesweeper. She really wasn’t interested in playing, she just wanted to hang out — or perhaps she wanted to reminisce through action. Before long, we were chatting about her day at school and about an award she received.
“Mommy said the Kindness Award is the nicest one of all to get.”
“I agree and, knowing you the way I do, it was the perfect award for you to receive. I couldn’t be more proud of you, Hadley.”
Silence.
“What do you think about the award? Was it a good one for you to get?”
“Absolutely!” Pause. Pause. Pause. “It isn’t always easy being kind to _______.” Hadley shrugged her shoulders, “She’s always hanging on me.” Another shoulder shrug, “I guess she just can’t help herself.”
My girl played a few more grids, then moved on to more sophisticated, solitary computer games while I mentally traversed my very own real-life game of Minesweeper.
February to June.
Consider the months laid out like a Minesweeper grid.
February 26th: Tim’s birthday. My beloved turns sixty-five this year. We began dating the year we both turned twenty-eight, so for the past thirty-seven years —— hold on while Andria, Nancy, and Guru do a mental math check on me —— anyway, for the past thirty-seven years Tim and I have shared every life experience, stored every memory we made, and whispered every hope for our future.
The ten years between high school and our tenth-year reunion were ours to live — and we lived them. We answered to no one, went where we wanted to go, did what we wanted to do, and sowed our share of wild oats. So, when we finally met up again, we were ready to settle into a serious relationship.
Almost ten months to the date of our reunion, we married. I was a confident June bride — Tim was a nervous groom. His vows went something like this:
“Timothy, do you take Sheryll to be your wedded wife—”
“I do.”
“—to live together in marriage?”
“I do.”
“Do you promise to love her—”
“I do.”
“—comfort her—”
“I do.”
“honor and keep her for better or worse—”
“I do.”
The minister put a hand onto my groom’s arm,
“I’m going to finish the vows. I’ll nod to you when I’m finished, then you can say, ‘I do.’ Okay?”
“Okay.”
“—in sickness and health, and forsaking all others, be faithful only to her, for as long as you both shall live?”
The minister nodded.
The groom said, “I do.”
The congregation laughed at the sweet moment.
Tim took his vows seriously — maybe it’s because he’d said them over and over and over at our wedding altar. Nope, he took them seriously because that’s the kind of man he is. He was raised by very decent people — parents who put their family first, weathered their storms together, and made commitments through word and deed and lived up to them — thereby setting an example for their children.
Playing the field when I was young let me know what I wanted for my future — more importantly, it let me know what I needed from my man. When Tim came along, I knew, deep in the places where insecurities can root and grow, that I wanted a man who had lived a little, one who’d been out on his own and responsible for taking care of himself — most importantly, I wanted a man who’d be all-in on any vows we might take. And I wanted someone with whom I could laugh my way through life. I learned Tim was that guy at my mother’s retirement party in 1985 (she was a young retiree).
A sidestep first: My parents divorced when I was in my early twenties. At that time, Mom, Marjorie and I were living with Meme, and for the foreseeable future things were going to remain status quo. And then came a chance meeting between my mother and Roland Bodreau, a man my parents knew through the Elks Club, but with whom they never socialized. Roland had lost his wife a few years before, and when he heard about my parents’ divorce, he let Mom know of his interest in her. They had a secret thing for a few months (sooooo cool) and when my mother told Meme, Marjorie and me about her steady beau named Bodreau, I think she feared pushback, or whatever. She got none. My mother deserved to be with a man like Roland Bodreau — a salt of the earth kind of man. The kind of man I wanted for myself, one day.
Anyway, back to Mom’s retirement party. It was at a place in Auburn called Periwinkles. I’d arranged the thing, invited family, a few of Mom’s friends, and several of her coworkers. Dinner was supposed to be served at 5:30 — by 6:45 the owner made an appearance to offer apologies, and free drinks, and promises that food would appear on the table by 7:00 at the latest.
Tim and I snuck outside for a butt and some fresh air — oxymoronic statement. Anyway, I lamented to the starving dude about the poor service and bitched and moaned about my own state of hunger. Tim nodded and pulled a drag of his Marlboro.
I pulled a drag of my Newport menthol and groaned through an exhale of smoke, “I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse.”
Without missing a beat, Tim stomped his foot as though it was a hoof, bent at the waist, whinnied, neighed, and snorted, and banged his head against my shoulder — and then he stood upright, smiled a big-ass smile that went from ear to ear.
I laughed my ass off. I fell in love.
It was more than his sense of humor that took me head over heels. There is absolutely nothing about Timothy James O’Brien that is flashy — nothing fake. He is cut from a clean cloth and along a straight seam — which I found sexy as hell. When Tim would put his hand to the small of my back, I’d get tingles of excitement. When he held my hand — he always held my hand — it made my heart skip a beat.
I loved him then. I adore him now.
I don’t want to die on his birthday.
March 5: Jessica’s birthday. My second-born daughter was supposed to be born on March 21st, my grandmother, Meme’s birthday.
And. Then. This. Happened.
I developed a serious condition when I was six months pregnant and needed to have my gallbladder removed. I was not a candidate for laparoscopic surgery because of the pregnancy, and I couldn’t delay surgery until I gave birth because the fear was that a gallstone could get dislodged and block something or other and that would lead to serious pregnancy complications. So, I had the big-ass type of gallbladder surgery during my second-trimester. That doesn’t even come close to being the big thing that happened during my Jessica pregnancy.
In January 1990, two months before Jessie was due, Hannah and I were taking a noontime nap in our second-floor walkup. There came a knock upon the back door — which I ignored. Several minutes later, I heard a loud bang coming from the first floor. Several minutes later, I heard another knock on the back door. Concerned that our elderly first-floor neighbor needed me, I left Hannah on the couch and waddled to the kitchen, arriving just in time for the back door to be kicked open by a home invader who moved aggressively into the room. Hannah had made it to my side and had wrapped her little arms around my legs and buried her face into my thighs as HE stepped closer.
I don’t know why the robber turned and left, but he did. I scooped up my toddler, grabbed the cordless phone from the wall, and went to the enclosed front porch and locked it behind us. I stood with my girl in my arms and watched the bastard make his way down June Street toward Newton Square. I don’t remember much about the actual phone call I made to 9-1-1 other than I repeatedly said my brother-in-law was Tommy Gaffney, a WPD officer.
Side step: Does anyone other than me find it extraordinary when you hear a tape recording of someone who’s called 9-1-1 because they’ve severed an arm, or have tripped over a loved one who’s been bludgeoned to death, or some other horrific, criminal event has taken place, and the caller is like, “Hi, this is so and so, and I live on Windsor Lane, you know, the pretty cul-de-sac off of Parker Lane, well anyway, there’s a dead body in my living room. I hope you can send someone over. Okay, thanks.”
What. The. Hell. Is. That?
I’m sure it’s helpful to the 9-1-1 dispatcher to receive a calm, cool, and collected emergency call, but HELLO PEOPLE, the dispatcher is the one trained to be calm, cool, and collected. You don’t need to be calm if someone is bleeding out on your Persian rug.
Just. Sayin.
As for my call to 9-1-1 — since it was an emergency situation, I emergencied myself all over the place. (Hello Andria). There was a whole lot of spewing going on, and there was absolutely NO pleasant chit-chat — I assure you.
Anyway, the police and EMTs arrived within minutes, I was examined from the perspective of being a pregnant woman, and also because I’d recently had major abdominal surgery. I had a smattering of contractions, I think I was given a shot of some sort, and was eventually sent home to bed which was now located behind locked doors — newly installed, steel constructed, deadbolt locked doors. That is where I stayed until the decision was made to deliver Jessica three weeks early, on March 5th.
I did what was best for her then. I want to do what’s best for her now.
I don’t want to die on her birthday.
April 4: Hannah’s birthday. There were no dramas during my pregnancy with Hannah — that in a nutshell is why I think she is nearly unflappable. I am, in no way implying there hasn’t been cause for her to flap on occasion — there certainly have been — but she takes things in stride — remember, she’s the cool chick.
Aside from having two surgeries of her own before she turned thirteen, and weathering the many health issues I’ve had, Hannah is the older sister of jabbering Jessie, and she’s the daughter of Yours Truly. That in and of itself, cannot have been easy on my firstborn.
After the break-in, Hannah said no words other than, “Bad man, bad man,” for approximately two weeks. She was twenty-one months old at the time and was looking forward to being a big sister. We’d moved her from the crib and into a big-girl bed with ease right after Christmas — then moved her back into the crib when we woke one morning and found her bed empty. The poor little kid had gone into the nursery, crawled under the crib, and spent the night surrounded by dozens of stuffed animals.
Our toddler needed to take a step back, so we let her. We tucked her into the crib that night — the place she’d slept comfortably for nearly two years, and let her stay there until she was ready to move out. It took about four months, and coincided with Jessica’s move from her bassinet to the crib.
That’s pretty much how Hannah’s life has always been. She’s set her own pace, gone about her business, did what needed to be done, and in the course of things, she paved the way for her kid sister, and made things very easy on her parents.
I responded to her needs as best I could then. I want to preempt her needs now.
I don’t want to die on her birthday.
May 1st: Marjorie’s birthday. My kid sister is a May Day baby. May Day is celebrated around the world either on May 1st or the first Monday of May. The earliest celebrations date back to the Roman Republic with the festival of Flora. American May Day festivities date back to the Merrymount Plantation on Massachusetts Bay in 1627; it was there that the first Maypole Revels took place.
A sidestep history lesson: Maypole decorating has roots in the ancient Pagan festival celebrating the beginning of the pastoral summer season. The pole is made from a young tree that’s been stripped of its branches and secured in the upright position. The pole takes on the masculine role of the dance — dancing maidens would weave through and around one another while wrapping the Maypole in ribbon and foliage. The springtime tradition was a hopeful celebration for livestock fertility, plentiful land bounties, and health and happiness for the people living off both.
I don’t remember a twirling ribbon or crepe paper celebration around a maypole for Marjorie, but there most certainly should have been. There’s something very colorful about Marchrie (my nickname for her). When she was a kid, she had sunshine yellow hair and gorgeous sapphire-blue eyes — and when she was old enough to choose her wardrobe, she most often chose citrusy colors — the kind that look great on a select group of people — the kind that always makes my mouth water and sends me straight to Friendly’s for a cone with orange sherbet scooped high.
I can easily imagine Marjorie barefoot, in a flowy, cotton, ankle dress, with flower wreath atop her long, lioness tresses, leading the systematic draping of a maypole. Ahhhhh — a perfect image.
I wanted happy celebrations for her then. I want beautifully decorated maypoles for her now.
I don’t want to die on her birthday.
The other night, I told Tim I was moving my death-date goal post. I know that I still have more than a month before I will reach MLB Opening Day, and that in and of itself is an ambitious goal, to be sure — but, I feel; I believe; I desire; I hope — that I might make June, even though June is a bit problematic in the Minesweeper Game of Life and Death.
Kathy’s birthday — June 6th.
My thirty-sixth wedding anniversary — June 20th.
Hadley’s eighth birthday — June 28th.
Osay, otnay onyay esethay aysday .
OMG! There’s a Pig Latin translator on the web.
FYI, that sentence is: So, not on these days.
(Andria, everything's better with a glass of wine. Cheers!).
A side step: I mentioned in a previous blog that Hannah was born on her great-grandmother’s birthday. Interestingly — at least I think it’s interesting — Hadley was born on her great-grandmother’s birthday. Sort of cool. There’s that word again — cool — in relation to Hannah. Yeup, like I said, she’s a cool chick.
Back to my personal game of Minesweeper. For the next five months, there are many days on which I do not want to die. I am sooooo not a numbers person, but I suspect the odds are kinda high that I will manage to avoid those days and run the risk of ruining a loved one’s special day.