Cribbage!

No politics Sunday.

From left to right: unknown cousin, my uncles Ralph, Leo, and Chet. Photo ca. 1959.

Uncle Chet taught me how to play cribbage in the late 50s and early 60s under a willow tree, maybe the one in the photo. Ralph was a Navy veteran. Leo was older and served in the Army in World War II; I don’t remember if Chet served.

All were quiet men and kind to me. Dad tells me that brother Leo didn’t like serving in the Army and wanted out. One time when he was home on leave, Leo went out hunting and came back with his trigger finger shot off. Apparently, Leo figured that if he told the Army he’d shot off his trigger finger in a hunting accident, the Army would discharge him. They didn’t. You don’t have to be very clever to recognize that one can’t shoot off one’s trigger finger by accident.

Instead of discharging him, they made him a cook, which didn’t make him happy.

Leo never married. He was a farm hand to a man and woman who had, if I remember correctly, eight children. The oldest four kids looked like the husband, and the youngest four looked like Leo. That generated a little gossip, but the world moved on.

All of us kids figured we were cousins, but to my knowledge, no one ever said anything about it.

We used to see our “cousins” at funerals, but now that generation is gone, we don’t. Being “good” Iowans, we all keep quiet about many things we probably shouldn’t have. DNA tests have proven the gossip right

Chet had emphysema and died from it at age 55 in 1966. His was the first funeral service I ever went to. Toward the end of his life, Chet and I would sit under the willow tree, playing cribbage, while he would cough and hack, alternatively taking a drag off his cigarette and then his oxygen tank.

I hadn’t played cribbage in years until two friends of ours, Michaela and Brian, held a double-elimination cribbage tournament a month or two ago as a fundraiser for a local girl battling a severe health condition. 

It was double elimination, and I lost the first two games I played. The two people who beat me really hadn’t played much before, but we muddled along and had fun.

Brian won the tournament, which isn’t surprising. He was born and raised in Minnesota, and Michaela tells me that drinking, fishing, and cribbage are proud traditions in his Minnesota family.

One hot Saturday afternoon after the tournament, I stopped by Peace Tree Brewing in Knoxville to have a beer. Brian and Michaela were there with friends, and Brian asked me if I wanted to play a game of cribbage. It turns out he had a deck of cards and a cribbage board in his truck--you know, in case of an emergency! As we sat there and played and drank beer, the natural rhythm, and cadence of the game came back to me. The ritualistic linguistic and familiar utterances associated with the game brought comfort to me.

“Fifteen two, fifteen four, a pair for six, and there ain’t no more.”

“Your cut.”

“Double three card run for eight.”

“Triple three card run for fifteen!”

“Double double three card run for sixteen!”

“Sending yuh a crib killer…”

“Nice hand…”

“Yuh forgot nobs”

“My crib?”

“You’re killing me on peggin!”

“Good game...”

“That was fun….”

It was a great day--a fun game of cribbage, friends, and beer.

And remembering Uncle Chet, who taught me the game so long ago, under a willow tree.