My parents left the house.  Ned, Hamill and I settled down to the tasks at hand.  We put two twin beds together so the three of us could watch Shock Theater comfortably on Channel 8 later in the evening.  We fed our dog, Patches, finished our chores and set the kitchen table for dinner. The three of us were a paragon of brotherly love, which was not surprising.  We were always close, particularly Ned and Hamill.  Their similarity in age, size, and athleticism drew them to mutual interests.  They spent a great deal of time together.  I admired them but rarely interacted with them in the neighborhood.  I was younger, smaller and had a different set of friends.  Nevertheless, our motto was, “One for all; all for one.”

Dinnertime came.  We were hungry and looking forward to one of our favorite dishes, Chef Boyardee Spaghetti and Meatballs.  We loved the marble-size meatballs and the secret-recipe, ravishing-red sauce.  Like gentlemen, Hamill and I waited patiently for Ned to dole out our portions.  The meal looked delicious and smelled great.  But.  But Hamill noticed immediately that Ned privileged himself with more meatballs than he gave him.  He objected.  Three or four terse verbal exchanges occurred between the two of them.  Ned claimed prerogatives of age and responsibility.  Hamill responded with louder screams of protest.  Ned yelled in exasperation for Hamill to get over it, announcing, “Sometimes life is unfair!”  Hamill was having none of it.  No philosophical proclamation by Ned was going to seal his fate.  He deftly speared one of Ned’s meatballs with his fork.  It was an exceptional display of hand-eye coordination.  Having failed to parry Hamill’s thrust, Ned grabbed a meatball out of Hamill’s bowl in just compensation.  Hands quickly became the utensils of choice.

While the struggle between my two brothers was erupting, I pondered my possible victimization.  If Ned swindled Hamill out his rightful number of meatballs, he might have done the same to me, probably so.   I decided to reconnoiter.  I went in peace.  I quickly became, however, collateral damage as spaghetti filled the air space above the kitchen table and meatballs ricocheted off the walls, one splatting on Mother’s “Home Sweet Home” framed needlepoint.  I witnessed most of the remaining conflict from the kitchen floor.  When Ned and Hamill depleted their ammunition of spaghetti and meatballs, they wrestled around the kitchen and into the dining room.  Years of watching Saturday-morning professional wrestling on Channel 6 paid off.  Ned held Hamill in a Bruno Sammartino headlock; Hamill countered with Bobo Brazil’s classic squeeze, The Crusher.   Their moves would have been the envy of Killer Kowalski and Dick the Bruiser.  All the while Patches scarfed up all the errant meatballs on the kitchen floor.

The melee ended as abruptly as it started.  Exhausted, both brothers declared victory, satisfied that the other neither ate a single meatball nor masticated a single strand of spaghetti.  The kitchen was a wreck.  Spaghetti festooned Mother’s new, long-awaited fabric wallpaper, rivulets of sauce crisscrossed the floor and utensils reposed in odd places.  Ned declared, rightfully, that the three of us had to clean up the mess or else, “We are all going down.”  We grabbed every detergent and rag we could find in the house and scrubbed in silence for over an hour.  Despite our efforts, we could not get all the sauce out of the creases in the fabric wallpaper.  Ned went down to the cellar and retrieved a 40-watt light bulb to replace the 60-watt light bulb over the kitchen table.  He hoped less light would obscure the marks on the wall.

As we were finishing the cleanup, Patches vomited in the dining room near the entrance to the kitchen; the meatballs were too rich an hors d’oeuvre.  The previously-laudable red color of the sauce became a permanent red-light stain on the carpet.  The more we scrubbed it, the more it darkened.  We decided to feign ignorance about the cause of Patches’ upset.  Man’s best friend was on her own.  It was our first experience in risk analysis.

When Mother and Dad returned home, they immediately became suspicious.  The dimly-lighted kitchen with the weaker light bulb, the sauce-sticky floor from our imperfect cleanup and the large stain in the dining room from Patches’ indiscretion indicated clearly that one or more criminal acts were committed during their absence.  They convened a family tribunal the following day.  Ned, Hamill and I pledged solidarity, which weakened when we entered the kitchen and saw that the spaghetti and sauce marks on the wall lightened overnight, making them more noticeable.  The red marks on the fabric wallpaper made it look like it was suffering from some kind of pox.

The three of us were in deep trouble.  Mother and Dad asked us very direct questions.   We caved.  Ned blamed Hamill, Hamill blamed Ned and both blamed me.  I thought that my young age, clean record and convulsive crying would be mitigating factors.  No luck.  I, too, was going down.  Mother meted out punishments so severe that, to this day, I cannot bring myself to describe them.  Perhaps it is sufficient to say that the mildest sentence was Patches’ lifetime banishment from the dining room.  Ned sought solace from Dad a few days later.  He told him that he might not have any friends when he finally emerged from his incarceration.  Ned was particularly concerned about the damage the long absence might do to his relationship with his new girlfriend, Patty.  Dad told him not to worry.  The lack of vitamin D from long-term, insufficient sunlight would probably kill him anyway.

As Ned, Hamill and I recovered slowly from our punishments, “Sometimes life is unfair” emerged as our new motto.  Initially, it was simply a humorous reference to Ned’s proclamation to Hamill that had launched the melee.  As years passed and we experienced the fluctuations of life, the motto evolved to represent a heartfelt sentiment, a sentiment that still touches me.  I often think during the pandemic about the unfairness of life:  the randomness of deaths, the life-changing health problems the coronavirus has caused and the inequalities and inequities it has exposed.  I realize, however, that dwelling on losses and deprivations is not productive.  I am far better off focusing on the good things that are occurring.  In this context, I am grateful that CVR elected officers and activity chairs have worked hard to host many activities and events this year that have been a respite from the pandemic for our club members.  It has not been easy.  Unusual conditions and constraints had to be navigated.  Dates of events had to be rescheduled, certificates of insurance had to be modified and requirements for face masks and social distancing had to be communicated and double-checked.  Nevertheless, club leaders, who are all volunteers, have distinguished themselves by their positive attitudes, impressive resilience and conscientious work.

We have suffered some recent setbacks.  The CVR Board of Directors had to make difficult decisions.  The emergence of the Delta variant, breakthrough cases among the fully vaccinated and renewed emphasis on social distancing made the planned in-person Annual Meeting and Photofest untenable.  The board decided to convene the Annual Meeting via Zoom in November.  For the same reasons, the Wayne Carini event was cancelled.  Caroline and Alan Davis, chairs of special events, had made preparations for the in-person Annual Meeting, including negotiating a contract.  Susan Young, chair of community service, had been in discussion with Wayne Carini and his representatives for over a year.  I thank Caroline, Alan and Susan for their dependable work and their patience in dealing with the vicissitudes of the pandemic.

There are still several excellent club events planned for the fall.  I look forward to them.  I am also looking forward to 2022.  Jeff Coe, vice president of programs, has confirmed Trailer Depot as the venue of the January Monthly Meeting.  The plan is to host the Photofest at the meeting and to present the annual awards at it.  Club members will be together again in person.  We will leave the doldrums behind.  Until then, my advice is this:  count the meatballs, no matter who is serving them.