Playing Cribbage

(note, much to my very deep chagrin, this is NOT my cribbage board. how much would I love it to be, though?)

When I was about 12, my dad taught me to play cribbage. It didn't take long before I was hooked. When the occasion arose, we would each play with other people and yet...we always came back to each other. We used the cribbage board that had been made for my grandfather during WWII. We bought a deck of cards that wasn't to be used for any other card game except our cribbage games (cards were big in our house, so a clean deck that you could put your hands on was a rare thing). Eventually, we upgraded to two very specific decks, instead of just Hoyles, so that they didn't have to be labeled ("CRIBBAGE CARDS: Do Not Use!") but were instantly recognizable. We never said goodbye to each other until we were in the middle of a tournament. That meant we had to get back together to finish it up. One of us would take the board; the others would take the cards. Again, we had to get back together to use them.

He taught me to ask "Feel like getting your ass whipped?" when I wanted to play. He taught me to answer "Think you're man enough?" when he asked the question of me. We shortened it to "Feel like it?" if the situation wasn't appropriate for the whole patter.

We played cribbage on the back deck, after the rest of the family had gone to bed. We played in Lynchburg and Boston and Denver. We played in airports and airplanes and on trains. Hospitals, restaurants, and colleges. Rolling across the English countryside and flying over the American one. We played cribbage the night before my first wedding day, after my bachelorette party. We played drunk, sober and in between. We talked about nothing while playing cribbage. We talked about everything while playing cribbage. We were supposed to be playing cribbage the night he died.

When he was cremated, I had the cards put in his casket with him. I kept the board. It's in my will that I will be cremated with the board. After all, we're in the middle of a tournament.

So why am I writing about this now, given that Daddy's death was over 12 years ago now (holy shit...) and my is many, many, many years out? Because a couple nights ago, my heart came to me and said "Aunt Mame, would you teach me to play cribbage?"

So I did. And so we have. Who knows if it will be a few days, a few months, or a lifetime treat for us. Only time will tell. I have already, however, taught him to ask "Feel like getting your ass whipped?" and to answer "Do you think you're man enough?"

Daddy would be pleased. I know I am.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ and your ass whipped, 'cause I think I'm man enough.