iStock/txkingGrowing up in the 1950s and ’60s with four siblings gave me many memorable experiences. Playing Monopoly with my two older brothers was just one of them.
Sitting at the kitchen table in our old farmhouse, my brothers taught me everything about board games that our parents didn’t want us to know. When we played, Bruce (four years older than me) was the banker and Warren (seven years my elder) was the real estate agent. The cards were stacked against me from the start.
There was more cheating going on between the two of them than you’d find in a Hank Williams song. My brothers were sneaky, and they’d trade money and property cards under the table. When I wasn’t looking, green houses and red hotels would magically appear on their properties. As the clock ticked, the boys got richer while I, their poor—very poor—and naïve little sister, would get closer to bankruptcy.
After spending about an hour trying to prove they were cheating, I’d quit. Then I would exclaim that this was the last game of Monopoly I would ever play with them. Ever.
Inevitably, they would coax me to play again, promising no more monkey business. Over and over, I believed them. We would start another game, but just like a repeat of an old Three Stooges episode, the whole circus would start again.
So much for friendly competition. Today, though it’s almost 60 years later, I still shake my head at what a gullible little sister I was!