An Old Man's Game: What Cribbage Taught This Mom About Fathers
The legacy of the game, along with stories told and retold, are the foundation of this family
My father is not always right, but he's never in doubt.
A born raconteur, he relishes an audience, even one that has heard the same tales and jokes retold over years. Gearing up for a story, he exudes an almost palpable energy, beads of sweat appearing on his reddening forehead. The rush of words will fall and trip over themselves like the stubborn pull of a lawnmower, a-RUN-duh-duh-dun-RUN-VRUM-duh-duh. Then he's off to the races and there's nothing for it but to settle in.
My father will soon turn 92 years old. His mind, like his body, is slower, more faltering. Despite decades of cigarettes and whiskey and red meat — he has given up only the smoking though the COPD remains — he has so far lived longer than anyone else in his family, a milestone he reached on his 90th birthday.
The game of cribbage is, according to my father, "the best two-handed card game ever invented."
My father's father died young, at 57. My husband, my son's father, also died young, at 59.
I'm lucky. I don't yet know that loss, what it's like to lose a father. To be unmoored. Adrift.
My son is 28, almost 29, and his father's doppelganger. Tall and muscled, wildly intelligent, hilariously funny. He's competitive, obsessed with games all of stripes, from the downright silly to the complicated and abstract. My father taught him, his only grandson, to play cribbage, his father's game.
The Nuance of Cribbage
Cribbage is a deceptively simple game, one with few rules but limitless nuance. Each opponent must shift strategy according to cards, timing and the other player. It's a calculus in which skill and dumb luck are intertwined, much like life itself.
Invented in the 17th century by John Suckling, a witty and well-liked scoundrel of the highest order, the game of cribbage is, according to my father, "the best two-handed card game ever invented."
Like many things discovered and rediscovered during the months of the COVID-19 pandemic, cribbage has experienced a resurgence. Recently, the British Columbia-based airline parts manufacturer Kodiak Aerospace pivoted to the production of high-end, optionally engraved, cribbage boards to keep its employees working and its machinery humming while they waited for the multi-million-dollar airline industry to bounce back.
All Kinds of Cribbage Boards
Highly collectible boards come in a staggering array of types, from scrimshaw to mother of pearl to cast aluminum. My father's board — his father's board, and now, my son's board—is a plain wood Horn/McCrillis, a classic. Light grooves are worn into the surface from the scrape of hundreds of thousands of scoring pegs and the lingering DNA from the hands of absent fathers.
"I ain't givin' it to you," my grandfather would say. "You've got to earn it." According to my father, on the day he was finally able to outplay his father, "he was happier than I was."
My grandfather taught my father to play in the Depression years during his 24-hour shifts as assistant fire chief in Kirksville, Missouri.
Over the cribbage board, he passed along the wisdom that now makes it into all my father's stories: "Always stand your ground. Don't start a fight, don't run from a fight, and if you're in a fight, fight to win." "No one is better than you. And damned few as good."
And though my grandfather didn't finish third grade, "education is everything."
The Loss of Fathers
Drafted as a driver for his osteopath mother in the days when doctors made house calls, my grandfather's formal schooling ended around 1907. Nevertheless, he worked as a journeyman electrician, a job that, instead of the army — which refused to enlist him, an older married man with children — killed him in a lightning strike to the transformer on which he was working. He didn't live to see any of his grandchildren or their children, let alone teach them to play cribbage.
The death of my husband, my son's beloved father, was also a bolt out of the blue.
The death of my husband, my son's beloved father, was also a bolt out of the blue. A once powerful football cornerback with no risk factors, he grew so small, so fast. Despite the heavy doses of chemo and radiation, the cancer stormed through his body like the warp speed of electricity, first lungs then bones, lymph nodes, brain. Just five months from diagnosis to death.
My son will never outlive his grief and loss.
My father is diminished now of course, as I assume anyone who gets to live this long becomes. He's forgetful, slow, blind in one eye and half-blind in the other. Unsteady on his feet, he shuffle-staggers through the compact, stairless house to the computer where he'll squint at online card games in the quiet of his study.
Each time I make the several-hundred-mile trek to visit, he's a bit less than before, and I worry if each time is the last.
Grandfather and Grandson, Together
I'd planned a family trip to see my father, the first time in years the entire family, what's left of us, would be together. But my son got COVID and had to cancel. He went to see his grandfather later, alone.
They talked strategy but didn't bring out the board; my son outplayed his grandfather a decade ago.
They shared the apple pie I left, a generations-old recipe with its flaky, melt-in-your-mouth crust and the only reason I keep Crisco in the pantry. They talked strategy but didn't bring out the board; my son outplayed his grandfather a decade ago.
Instead, they ate leftover barbecue and sat on folding chairs in the driveway, my son listening to his grandfather's oft-told stories. One of which was, at my son's request, a version of my father's favorite joke. The peals of their laughter punctuated the air like scoring pegs.
A scorpion wanted to cross the river but couldn't swim. He called to a passing crocodile and begged him to carry him to the other side. "No," said the crocodile. "You'll sting me and we'll both die." "No, I won't" the scorpion promised.
They haggled a bit until the crocodile relented. "Climb on my back," he said to the scorpion. The pair swam halfway across when the scorpion stung the crocodile. "Why did you do that?" the dying crocodile cried before the pair slipped under the water. The scorpion replied, "That's Africa, baby."
