My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie Grandpa's attempt at mashed potatoes could only be described as "enraged." Where parts of it sagged into mush, others rose in angry starch mountains and volcanoes on my plate. With butter, the whole thing turned into a battlefield. And in my mouth, it tasted like the end of a long and bitter war. My mother managed to swallow a lumpy wad without gagging, though my sister wasn't so skilled at masking her disdain. After the first nibble, she reached for her glass of wine and drank a good third of it before apparently her palate was at last cleansed. Grandpa, as always, sat at the head of the table. His face was still red and veiny, his fists trembling as his fingers nearly bent the fork and knife in his grip. "Well," he barked at my sister, "can you at least eat the meatloaf?" My sister raised her head from her plate - most likely, she had been scrutinizing the dinner as if wrinkling her nose at a "modern" work of a

Roger Marvin Smith was completely inept at anything technological. When asked by someone if he used a wireless mouse for his computer, his response was, "Aren't all mouses wireless?" After his own mother had gotten a tablet and become very accustomed to it, she was the one teaching her son how to swipe left or right. And once, during a family outing, Roger was punching at his brand new smartphone angrily, wondering why he couldn't simply attach typewriter keys to the darn thing and remain perfectly old-fashioned.