The Most Dangerous Game

Sometimes I'll reminisce about something my dad once said or did and my younger brothers or sisters will say "the dad I knew never did that."  It's one of the sad truths of our lives that going to Palmer changed him, changed the way he interacted and existed in our family forever.  I've gone over and over this in my mind--was it really the right thing for my parents to decide?  Were we so much at risk growing up in California in the 70's? (probably yes.)  Were the benefits (whatever they were) worth the loss?  Maybe one day we'll know.  What I do know is this--I may have grown up without money, but I'll never regret having experienced that part of Dad.

One of my favorite memories of Dad is of his telling the short story "The Most Dangerous Game."  Now Dad had committed to memory several epic poems in addition to this story, but as a child I wasn't interested in hearing the poetry (ok, the occasional telling of "The Highwayman" or "Sam McGee" was acceptable), I wanted to hear "The Most Dangerous Game" again.  He told it at least once a year--on ward campouts, maybe on family campouts, and whenever there was a reason for a story to be told.  He knew the story well and had embellished various details to make the story even more suspenseful and exciting.  I can still hear his voice in my head, calling out with a rising tone, "Rainsford?!?"  I can hear him describing the traps that Rainsford set to protect himself from General Zaroff, his hounds, and his servant.  And I can still hear the satisfied tone in his voice as he described the final scene in the story, not telling us what had happened but letting us figure it out from what he described.

I asked Dad if he could tell the story for the kids last summer, but he said that he no longer remembers it well enough.  I'm just glad that I was there when he did...