Thanksgiving weekend, we pulled out the memory game. Not so long ago, my youngest and I played the game almost daily. The game was from my own childhood, and somewhere along the way came to us.
The cardboard squares are now old and well-used from hundreds of games. We turn them around and around in our hands, talking and playing, remembering and mis-remembering.
On this December 1 day of sunlight, I cut kale from the garden. The soil beneath my boots is soft, the ice melting into mud. At last night’s virtual Almanac launch, the editors spoke about the importance of print, of books you can hold in your hands, press your face into the opened pages and breathe in the scent of paper and ink.
The memory pieces all have names we’ve made up: pointy tree and leafy tree, yellow girl, blue girl, ugly quilt, the ball, the sun. Strangely, there is no moon. I brew tea. We eat leftover pumpkin pie. Here again is the question: what’s real? Answer: bird in the hand.
Stony Soil Vermont 
As someone who want a professional in the book biz (bookstores, publishing, author) for 30 years or so, I do love the feel of a real book in my hands, especially at the end of the day before bed. As someone in her late 60’s, I don’t really want to add to the clutter in our house…trying to reduce…so end up with Kindle books often. But sometimes you just need the real book…which gets donated to the library for their annual sale when read.
Interesting comment… in my house, there’s a very fluid in and out of books.
I loved seeing the photo of this game. I remember the pieces well.
I’d actually forgotten that what we called the game was Concentration until Dad reminded me.