I Call a Do-Over

by caccy46

I don't know if you had to have been born in the 1940s to understand the childrens' phrase "I call a do-over," but, obviously, it was always shouted out when your hopscotch stone didn't land on its intended number ("Do-over, Bobby bumped my arm") or if you saw Susan peak when you hid behind Mrs. Helmstetter's garage during Hide and Seek (and anyway she counted to 10 way too fast); "I call a do-over" I'd whine, and usually get my way because I was the youngest and would cry over just about anything. Do-overs were really cool, and I don't ever remember feeling guilty or wrong for calling one. And, for the most part, do-overs were pretty much always respected and given to the caller. You never really argued much about do-overs. My dear friend, David, my friend of more than 40 years and the smartest man I've ever known, died Wednesday, long, long before we finished playing our games. At his burial, as I put my shovel full of dirt over his casket, I screamed, silently, "Do-over," but no one heard me.


caccy46, author of Birthday Boy, is 60 years old, a mother of two, and has been married for 32 years.