None of us knew anything.
And that’s what made it so much fun.
For many years, I hosted Christmas Eve and a big part of it was our family’s annual Trivial Pursuit tournament.
It was fierce. It was cutthroat. It was maddening.
And everyone couldn’t wait to get started.
Our gathering always began with dinner. My aunt would bring the chicken and her famous pretzel Jell-O. My mom would make her crab dip and much-requested peanut butter balls. My cousin would contribute a cheese plate or a massive salad. And my husband and I would fill in the buffet with Italian beef sandwiches, potato casserole, and lots of liquor and desserts.
The game began immediately after the plates were cleared. We gathered around my dining room table, pairing off because there were so any of us and because two heads are better than one when it comes to remembering the capital of New Zealand or what won Best Picture in 1975.
We typically played the original “genus” version of the game, all of us eventually memorizing even the incorrect answers. One year we tried the Silver Screen version. It lasted two rounds before the entire group revolted and the original game was brought back out.
In the early years, we played simply for bragging rights. But once my husband introduced prizes — scratch-off lottery tickets — the competition became ruthless.
Sometimes it would continue deep into the night, which always made the non-players — my dad and one of my uncles, to name a few — complain bitterly about being tired and having had enough of “It’s a Wonderful Life” on the TV.
As the midnight oil burned, and the contest intensified, there’d be sweating, occasional cursing and the pantry emptied of chips, pretzels and anything that could be stress-crunched.
“Please, give me one more minute. I know this. I know this. I think,” my mother would insist.
“Hey, how come you get all the easy questions,” my uncle would demand.
“You studied the answers before the game, didn’t you,” just about everyone said to anyone who knew an answer immediately.
The laughter. The high-fives. The threats to get even next year.
I’d give anything to relive it.
I’d give anything to be able to convene that group of misfit know-it-alls and listen to them brag with abandon or beg for mercy.
But almost all of them are gone now.
I have vivid memories or warning myself to pause and enjoy the moment because moments never last. Indeed.
Before everyone left, we’d exchange presents, take a few pictures and my dad would always say, “We need to go home and sleep fast. Santa will be here any minute.”
There was something magical about that night, about that time, about those people.
Most of them had grown up during hard times. Most of them never had the opportunity to go to college or pursue a chosen career. Only a few were “highly” educated and none were blessed with monetary good fortune.
We were regular folks, born and raised on the South Side. We were working stiffs, who, like everyone, had amassed a personal library of what could be considered useless information.
Until game night.
Some knew volumes about sports history; some had read hundreds, if not thousands, of books over the years; some had an affinity for science or geography; and some relied heavily on their partner to carry them through to victory.
Though we appreciated the festively wrapped presents that came afterward, all of us seemed to know that life’s best gifts couldn’t be bought: Family, laughter and a moment in time when you could feel like the smartest person in the room.
Though none of us ever won more than a few bucks on a scratch-off, those gatherings left us feeling rich beyond measure.
And that is one pursuit that could hardly be considered trivial.
Donna Vickroy is an award-winning reporter, editor and columnist who worked for the Daily Southtown for 38 years. She can be reached at donnavickroy4@gmail.com.
