I was three, certainly not four when they first came.Tall, straight men with buzz cut styles and square stubble on the middle oftheir top lips. And they had guns but didn’t bring them into the house. Theywere loud and lively, and my father smelled of yeasty homebrew after they weregone. They were Americans.

I was four, certainly not five when they came again.They brought a bombardier, and boxes and boxes of stuff the likes of which wehad never seen before. Not even at Christmas had these wonders ever entered ourrealm. Even the black and white television when it was first turned on didn’tcompare. The biggest box could hold a fridge if we had known of such a thing atthe time. There were clothes, bicycles, footsies, and boardgames. Payday,Monopoly, Life, and a yellow box with a word on it none of us could pronounce.

I was five, certainly not six when I first heard therattle. The American’s were back. They brought their children. And dolls. Wenamed them after their American children. Tammy and Sherry were cherished foryears. As our bellies hit the floor, feet dancing in the air, we dressed andundressed those dolls. In the background, Bonnie and Lloyd were teaching myparents the game in the yellow box. It was Yahtzee.

I was six, certainly not seven when I watched myparents play Yahtzee as we gathered around the trouble game, the older onesplayed Life, a storm raged outside and there were no Americans. The plastic cupwas loud and sometimes one of them would let me shake their turn and spill outthe die across the kitchen table. Perhaps one would fall and clatter across thefloor and pause the game in the scramble to find it. All the score sheets weregone so they used scribblers or paper bags to keep track.

I was seven, certainly not eight when I played Yahtzeefor the first time. Dad wanted somebody to play and Mom was making bread. Therewas a storm outside. I had learned by watching and keeping score for Dad or Momon times. I loved the game. I was hooked.

I was nineteen, certainly not twenty when my thenboyfriend, now husband, learned to play. There would be a table full of us instiff competition. The shaking can had been worn out ten times over. Thecardboard baking powder tin made less noise. Tally sheets, scribblers, loose leaveswere worn out, numbers scratched into the table top through the brown paperbags. The Yahtzee die shaking was a constant and the shout of Yahtzee for fiveof a kind turned everyone’s head.

I was forty, certainly not forty-one when I played mylast game of Yahtzee with my father. He was keen to win and would play frommorning to night. By then my children had interest and played with him, too. Weknew the game had been passed on when we bought a game for our house in St.Brides and the can made a racket without either of my parents there. Nor theAmericans.

I was fifty-five, certainly not fifty-six when Itaught my grandson how to play Yahtzee. He’d come from upstairs after school. Sometimeshis Poppy would play with us and sometimes his Mommy. The familiar rattle ofthe die before they were upset on the table and the one that would sometimestake off and end up under the chesterfield held a generational comfort.

I was fifty-eight, certainly not fifty-nine when Iplayed my last game of Yahtzee with my mother. It was at the long-term care facilityand she could neither shake the can nor keep the score but she wanted to playanyway. We had endless games as we passed away the days at Pleasantview Towerstelling stories about my father and the Americans. I have her game tucked inbeside my own at the house.

I was sixty, certainly not sixty-one when I opened agift this past Christmas from my daughter. It was a new-fangled Yahtzee gamethat is just waiting to be opened on a stormy day and stories told about myfather, my mother, and the Americans.

Yahtzee!