As you enter my house, to the right of the front door there hangs a cribbage board, and countless memories of my dad.
Dad and I made the board together when I was in my early teens. If you look closely at the holes, you can tell that I was involved, particularly where they go crooked on the middle right side. While dad was a true craftsman, I never had the patience or coordination to match his level of competence. I remember when I mis-set that hole. Dad didn’t say anything, he just guided the drill press back into line. Afterward when I mentioned it, he said that once the board was sanded and stained that no one would every notice it. Of course it is the first thing I see every time I look at it.
I don’t know what put the idea in my head that I wanted to learn cribbage. I came from a card playing family, and dad played when he was young, but this board was essentially starting from scratch for both of us as we read the rules and began to play on evenings when I was done with homework.
Later, after I moved away, whenever I came by the house to visit mom and dad, there would always be a moment when one of us would say, “Time for a game?” And off we would go. I remember for a while that we kept score on wins and they were very close, but we stopped that after a few years. The game was all that mattered, and bragging rights for the night were based on who won the best two out of three.
The wonderful thing about playing cards is that it is togetherness without the pressure of conversation. Dad and I always got along, but it felt at times that we communicated more through playing cribbage than through any deep conversation. The game was a symbol of our relationship, its long roots and dependable future.
Dad was a better card player than I (just as he was a better craftsman); however, there is just the right balance of luck and skill in cribbage to keep our overall wins close to equal. Though each of us went on streaks, they never lasted for long. Ironically, dad was a terrible loser. As soon as he would start getting behind, he would start complaining about his luck. Too often I fell for this and let down my guard only to have him come from behind and beat me.
He played my brother and sisters as well, and we kids sometimes played each other, but at core the board was ours as was the game.
In the last three years of his life, we were able to play more than ever. By then I had shifted from the office job to consultancy, and I would go over there virtually every day I wasn’t traveling. It was our routine. I’d walk in, say hello, and go for the cupboard to grab the board and cards. We would play the best two out of three, and then usually I would leave, having barely talked at all, except about that last great play.
As dad’s health failed, I was extraordinarily blessed that he maintained the ability to come to the table and maintained his mental acuity to play as well as ever. I can recall one game where he was making foolish mistakes and I feared that his illness was taking its toll, but the next game he beat me completely and mercilessly.
As the weeks of hospice passed, it was becoming clear that time was getting short. I started to face the fact that one of these games, after literally thousands, was going to be our last. I wondered if I would know it while it happened, and I wondered who would win the last game.
The last game we played was during the weekend before he died. In retrospect, it should have been clear to me, but it felt like any other game. There was no phony sentimentality, or any words said, for that matter. Dad won the last game, as was completely appropriate, and I put away the board for the next time. During the next day hospice care put dad on morphine, and two days later he was dead.
When my sisters, brother, and I started talking about what to do with everything, I was clear on one point. I wanted the cribbage board. It is the one thing that I have from their house that means the most to me, and wherever I live it will hang on the wall as a memory of two well-matched partners through life.
Be safe, be strong.
Very touching.