On Godhood

For our recent vacation, Kathy & I and three other couples rented a house on Lake Owasco in New York’s Finger Lakes region. Kathy and I were the only couple without kids, and there were six of them in all. They're a good bunch o’ sprites, smart, enthusiastic, creative and funny.

And they worshiped me as a god. Honestly. There was bowing and scraping and stuff. I couldn’t believe it either.

It started when Kathy & I brought home a watermelon from the supermarket. One of the kids asked me about it -- they might have even asked flat-out if it was a watermelon, although they clearly knew that it was. Kids like hearing themselves talk.

Anyway, I said no, it wasn’t a watermelon; it was a football. An edible football that tasted like watermelon. They liked this.

They really liked this.

Whenever the watermelon and I were in the same room together (usually the kitchen, since the melon didn’t get around much), they’d ask me about it. When we’d eat the edible football. Could we play with the edible football? I made up whatever answers were necessary, and these seemed to be transmitted through the gaggle enthusiastically.

The football questions persisted, and I met each one with a new slice of baloney. At some point, to discourage them from playing with the edible football, I invented water balloon football. This caused some problems—the outside spigot wasn’t working, so we had to fill the water balloons in the house, Some water got on the floor, and at least one of the kids slipped. She wasn’t seriously hurt, but there were some tears, I think. I organized the kids into more of a bucket-brigade system, with everyone having one job or anther, so at least there wasn’t so much fighting for the sink.

Then I tried to divide the kids into teams. I picked two captains randomly. Big mistake—I should have picked the two youngest, to separate them. The teams would have evened themselves out. Instead, there was some consternation about game balance, and we soon reshuffled the teams.

And then I realized that I couldn’t just say “It’s just like football except if the balloon breaks, you’re down.” For one thing, I didn't want the kids tackling each other, since their was a variety of sizes on the field. Plus, some of them weren't clear on the rules of football. (I’m no expert, either.) So there was some hashing out of the rules, and then I just threw up my hands. "You know what? Let’s have a water balloon fight.”

It was brief, and I was attacked a lot. I did manage to catch a few and throw them back, though.

Somewhere around this time, the boys in particular started bowing to me, chanting, “All hail the master of the edible football! All hail!” This, I thought, is what vacation is for. I don’t get a lot of “all hail” at work.

The kids would corner me as I walked through doors or down stairs. Out of nowhere, they’d suddenly appear, praising me. It was funny and creepy at the same time, which was probably their desired effect. Kudos all around, kids—you’re freaking out the grownups.

Anyway, back to the edible football...er, watermelon. At some point I cut the thing into chunks and brought it out to the kids in a big bowl, announcing “The time has come! Eat of the innards of the edible football!”

They took to this like ducks to duck sauce. Within minutes, all that was left was a pool of watermelon juice at the bottom of the bowl. And then one of them said, “Drink the blood of the edible football!” Suddenly I realized—I had created a sacrament. That’s a little nerve-wracking, even for a guy who doesn’t believe in divine retribution.

The praising and the bowing started becoming more and more persistent. “All hail Master!” they started saying. The edible football was dwindling in stature now that it was gone. A couple of the adults told me: “You’ve got an army, and you’re not making them do anything.”

Finally, the servitude got to me. Long after it should have, really, but I could tell they were having fun. But on the morning we spent tie-dying shirts and sheets and soon, everything in sight, it started getting to be too much. I told them (in a grown-up voice): “I don’t want anyone calling me Master who’s not washing our cars.”

And that was that.

Easy come, easy go.

Rob, Former Master of the Edible Football