Down
with
Charades
R,
by Dick Emmons
i emember the good old relaxed days when the host and hostess
at a party liked nothing better than to have, their guests
sit around in amiable little groups talking animatedly about
high taxes or small children, depending on the speakers' gender?
Dimly now I recall sweet evenings when the gang would get
together at somebody's house. The men, following their natural
precepts, would drift into the kitchen, lean fraternally against the
various appliances (they were all white in those days!) and tell
off-color jokes and sing off-key songs. The women, pretending
annoyance at being left alone, would chatter away blissfully, all
at the same time.
- No more! Today the Organized Party stalks the land. Hostesses,
who used to devote themselves merely to circulating the cheese
coated walnut halves, now prod their guests into parlor games.
Take the night we were at the Clendons recently. As soon as I
had doffed my coat and hat, Irene Clendon handed me a piece of
folded paper and barked, "Follow these directions!"
Bewildered, I opened the note and read: "Look on page 239 of
the fourth book from the left on the third shelf in the den."
I wove off toward the den in a fog, found the book, and was
immediately instructed by my next note: "Go to fruit cellar in
basement. Search under raspberry-currant jelly jars."
It was in the fruit cellar that I bumped into Pete Forsythe. He
was working on pear halves, shelf four, back row.
We exchanged greetings warmly. "You're the first human I've
seen since I got here!" I cried.
"I saw Barry Jennings at the linen closet a half-hour or so ago,"
Pete said. "He had a tough assignment under the pillowcases. Said
if I saw anyone he knew to say hello."
I nodded. "Well, see you downtown sometime, Pete. I've got to
go find the vestibule clothes closet." Pete waved forlornly as I
moved off, and I promised to snd down some sandwiches if he
didn't get back upstairs by midnight.
Finally the treasure hunt ended and there was a ripple of
applause, as Mrs. Clendon presented the winner, who was covered
with attic cobwebs, with the prize. It was one of those plastic
worms that you slip into someone's drink for a laugh.
Most of us had dropped halfway into comfortable chairs when
Mrs. Clendon blew on a whistle. "Attention, everyone. Next comes
my very favorite game, charades! After that we'll have a hands-and-knees
race down the hall corridor blowing ping-pong balls,
and then ..." I glided out noiselessly and crept along the wall,
trying to blend in with the ferns on the paper.
I very nearly made it to the den, when a strong hand clamped
down on my shoulder. "Now then, what are we up to back here?"
Mrs. Clendon rasped.
"Er just getting a prop or two for my charade,'! stammered.
"Good, good, good," my hostess chirped. "Hurry back to the
living room and don't forget that each player has to depict a
famous person in literature! It's such fun!"
Pulling my overcoat high above my ears, I galloped back into
the living room, cantered twice around the coffee table, and raced
out the front door and into the night, whinnying furiously.
I don't know if they ever guessed I was the Headless Horseman.
I didn't come back to find out!
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' - , V
hi . i
Family Weekly, February 23, 19SS
17
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