The category is Nieces:

The answer is: How Brian whiled away a half-hour with his 5-year-old niece in the back yard of his sister's Harrisonburg digs on Thanksgiving Day 2002. Good luck!

"Jeopardy!" Theme Song Plays

No, seriously, Diary:

I had invited the antsy anklebiter out back with a view toward freeing her turkey-basting mother from the task of supervising such a sugar-charged cherub: in addition to expediting dinner preparation, the ploy would let the other housebound inmates (my mother and brother-in-law) discourse in that worry-free yet dignified manner that is so becoming in their time of life. (Ah!) For we must agree that rational and witty discourse, expressed in judicious and seemly terms, is a joy to the heart of all creatures of good will. (Ah!) And, having signed off on that proposition, we can't help but see how a 5-year-old child could compromise this joy when, through an excess of high spirits (not to say sheer impishness), she begins throwing a big blue ball in the house, especially when that big blue ball lands on the carefully prepared dining room table and knocks over a candle. Suddenly it's time for a savvy uncle to come to the rescue of jangled grownup nerves by guiding the child outdoors for a promised game of kickball. (Come on, B-M, before your rational and witty mother whoops you upside your impertinent preschool head. The very idea: throwing a ball in the house!)

So we're out back, right? (not to say "down under") after procuring the requisite coat and mittens, on account of it was a chilly Turkey Day in that what-cha-call-it Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, a mere 25 of the silliest little degrees you can imagine, albeit cloud-free and wind-free degrees (though I can't speak to the humidity and barometric pressure). And so I put the now-infamous blue ball into play by means of a gentle soccer-like kick, bidding the urchin stop me from scoring a "goal" between a set of miniature garden trellises. Nor was she loath to accept the challenge, for her flashing-light tennies began experimentally kicking the air before I had so much as dribbled the ball to her side of the field. And heaven help my bad back when I finally brought the projectile within reach of her ever-swinging footsie, for she then disdainfully booted the plastic spheroid right past the birdfeeder and into the carport -- do not pass "go," do not collect $200! And I'm like, "Somebody's been practicing, eh? Do I have a niece who's a soccer player? Is that what I have: a niece who's a soccer player? Eh?" And she like laughs while I have to go get the ball, which is now like in Canada or something: can you believe that child? Man!


Suddenly I froze, however, and not just thanks to those insufficient little 25 degrees I mentioned above: for, as I dribbled the blue ball back to this little Pele over there in the pink coat by the miniature garden trellises, I says to myself, "Brian," I says, "you've used up 10 minutes, guy, with this delightful kicking machine here, but how are you going to keep this sports prodigy happy for another 20 minutes or so in order that Mama Chef might properly baste the Thanksgiving turkey and perhaps even have a reasonable and witty conversation with her adult counterparts?" Because I could see this "game" getting old very quickly, at least for me, especially if I had to keep chasing the ball into the carport! And so I racked my brains as I brought the blue ball back into play, bidding my niece prepare for another kick. Of course, we could always play hide-and-seek, but there was only one obstacle in that grassy play area behind which even the petite B-M could completely hide, and that was a giant fir tree on the property line just this side of a dog kennel. Unhappily, the cage's german shepherd inmate has always evinced a disquietude with regard to my person, as manifest in his ever-louder barking upon my perceived approach, or indeed upon my merely looking in his general direction, or even saying, "Nice doggy, that's a nice doggy." (He'll have none of that, let me tell you! Nice doggy, indeed! He'll show ME a nice doggy!)


Fortunately, Youthful Imagination gave me a free pass for the moment as my niece took it into her head, quite independent of my own machinations, to call a time-out for the purposes of collecting dandelions, wherewith to add to the "treasure" that she had been collecting in a shoe box for the past several weeks. Naturally, I played along, joining the search for dandelions, happy in the knowledge that this new activity would probably kill at least another five minutes on the clock. But then I got a sly grin on this grizzled mug of mine: "Brian," I says to myself, "suppose you were a bumble bee who pestered your niece when she least expected it! Wouldn't she get a hoot out of that? You know, make with your index finger like it's a bumble bee that might sting her!" Actually, I thought this was a silly idea, and I even feared that it might scare the 5-year-old, but failing to envision a more promising plan for running down the remaining minutes in this strategic game of "Niece Diversion," I resolved to put the scheme into action, with the proviso that my bee should "bumble off" upon the least sign of childish discomfiture.


So every two minutes, until the game was over and we returned indoors for the now-well-basted Turkey (ooh, what basting!) I would bring my index-finger bee over to the most recently picked dandelion in that little hand of hers and make like I was sipping nectar. Naturally, she'd smile and try to "swat" the bee away -- whereupon I'm like: "Oops! You've disturbed me! Now I'm gonna sting ya!" And her eyes would start from her sockets, for she took me seriously enough, or rather she took my index finger seriously enough, though happily she was smiling as I buzzed after her. And like every two minutes I buzzed her because she was "disturbing me." I'm like: "Uh-oh, you're DISTURBING ME again!!! Ha ha!"