How I Got This Way 

    Life can be hard. The tough either don’t survive or just have a miserable time of it. When I was growing up we didn’t pay much attention to physical hardships. I don’t remember any emotional hardships, in fact we probably didn’t know we were supposed to have any. 
    When the tongue of the manure spreader dropped on my foot raising a lump the size of half a softball, so that I shouldn’t have walked on it for several days, I just ignored it, limped around the farms with the aid of a make-shift walking stick, and continued with my chores. 
    As the years passed this attitude of physical and emotional toughness stood me in good stead. However there came a time when life decided I needed a refresher course---hence the game of PIT/SPOONS. The following description is from my journal, written in 1991. 

    The scene---both daughters and their husbands had come to visit. 

    While Lorraine was picking up the extra food, the kids went into K Mart to find a deck of Pit cards. Now if you don’t know what Pit is you had better ask someone from an earlier generation, however I have the feeling that anyone reading this probably has been introduced to the game of Spoons, which uses a Pit deck to initiate the mayhem that is the real game. 
    The game is basically the trading of cards until a person holds a complete suit, after which this person picks up a spoon from the center of the table. The frantic effort of trading cards is similar to the floor of any stock exchange during a selling or a buying panic. Since there is a penalty for not getting a spoon, and being there is one less spoon than there are players, there is usually a mad scramble for the rest of the spoons. 
    The madness of the scramble is proportional to the amount of red meat the group has been eating over the last few days, and/or a natural instinct for bringing pain and suffering to one’s fellow players. This group, falling into both categories, even now makes my kind and gentle nature cringe with the memory of the last several evenings. 
    The grabbing of the spoons, or forks, if the group is in a blood-sport mood, makes the “running of the bulls” in Pamplona look like a slow stroll along the Hot Springs, Arkansas, Promenade Walk in early morning. As the grabbing starts there is usually one if not more bodies thrown across the top of the table without regard to personal safety or dignity. At one point I found myself being dragged across the table top by my oldest daughter, who I had nurtured and cared for, and who was now threatening me with a bite into a wrist artery if I did not relinquish the hold on “my spoon.” 
    Finally realizing just how much this meant to my daughter, and feeling my shoulder muscles letting go, I gladly gave up my claim to said spoon and was thrilled to see her win yet another round of this insane game. 
    The younger daughter, who was sitting next to me would usually wait for me to get a spoon, then in one of several sneaky ways she has developed, since being removed from my stabilizing influence, takes the thing away from me. The sons-in-law, having no regard for life or limb, especially mine, were indeed worthy opponents. It was somewhat gratifying to realize that if worse came to worse, career wise, they would excel as enforcers for some mob family. 
    This is a game that one should not try, with this local group, without proper training. The following would be one possible training program. First work with weights until you can press about four-hundred pounds. 
    Then put several large rattlesnakes into a bird cage, shake them up until they are very indignant, then reach in, tickle the one of choice under the chin and retreat, picking up at least three of four randomly placed marbles on the way out. When you can do this without getting bitten by one of the snakes, you know you have almost developed the speed and agility to be able to compete with this bunch. Getting bitten by the snakes, if that does happen, will give you a small taste of what it’s going to feel like during the game, especially if you’re using forks. 
    Next go out into the back yard, and after making a fist with your grabbing hand, hit an oak tree with as much weight as you can put into it. Do not be dismayed at the bleeding and the pieces of flesh being left on the bark of the tree. If this bothers you, this game is not for you. 
    Next, using that same hand, still in a fist, strike the back of the hand against the same tree. If it is too messy by this time, use another tree. When you can do this without sustaining any major damage to your hand, you are as ready as you’re going to get. 
    However, the most important preparation is not physical, but emotional. Good preparation would be to look at pictures of starving third-world children, Holocaust victims, or close-ups of accidents. When you can do this without any twinge of emotional response you are ready to play with a group such as fate has thrown me in with.