When we got back from doing whatever work my father's hobby farm demanded, after dinner, after a badly needed hot bath, more often than not, my dad would break out his cribbage board and say "You want to get beat?" I'd respond with something lame, and sit down for our semi-weekly game of cribbage. Now, this was also a ritual at my father's work, and there was rarely a noon hour for 32 years that passed that my dad did not sit down with some co-workers and play a game of partner's cribbage.
Cribbage is not as complicated as pinochle, nor as easy as rummy. If there is a strategy to it, it is limited to what card to lead, what card to play in the part of the game when cards are laid out in combinations to score points, and what cards to get rid of into the spare hand called "the crib" that is counted after playing out dealt hands. Games are tabulated on a cribbage board, and each game is won by scoring 121 points before your opponents can. If you win by 31 or more points, the win counts for two games. This is called a "skunk." If you win by 61 points, it's called a "double skunk."
The game allowed my dad and I to interact on a competitive level that was "safe." I found the nights when I won exhilarating. Nights when I lost, or did not get the cards were very deflating. My dad was a person who was very athletic, and could play almost any physical game well within a few hours of taking it up. My athletic ability was good, but nowhere near my dad's. Although he was quite a bit older than the average dad, he was still quite lithe for an older man. Our games of cribbage were played on a level playing field, because even though I was seven or eight, I rapidly understood the basic game, and began to play him evenly fairly quickly.
My dad loved to work. He worked 45 to 50 hours a week, and then came home and worked 12 hours a day on his hobby farm. He liked me to work beside him. I wanted to please him, and working beside him and getting any praise he gave me was gold....better than any currency. The cribbage games were a time when I didn't have to work, I could just be with him and play. The skills I learned from him playing cribbage were subtle. I learned the skill of man-talk, that is, the short hand dialogue between men in which what is not said is more important than what is said. I learned to lose with grace, and win with modesty. I learned to use humor as a way of expressing feelings in understated ways. I learned to enjoy my father as a man, and to think of myself as a man to be.
My father was a guy who did not think violently, hated guns, and yet helped develop some of the most deadly weapons ever created. Somehow, cribbage just let him be himself, without the heavy trappings of work, family, or great expectations. He would sit down with the guys he supervised, or with me, and for a few hours, all was forgotten. He could just have fun. His favorite gift that I ever gave him was a beautiful wooden cribbage scoreboard, with bronze and silver scoring pegs. Late in his life when he was losing his sight, and could barely see due to macular degeneration, we would sit down together when I was in New Mexico visiting, and play cribbage. I would walk up to him, and say "You want to get beat?" He'd laugh, smile, and our bonding ritual would bring us together once again.
He died of smoking induced emphysema at age 70 in 1985. He apologized to me every time I visited, saying "Peter. you were right, I should have stopped smoking, but I didn't listen to you." I would reply by saying "I don't like being right, dad, I wish you were feeling better." After his death, a number of his personal effects came to me. The cribbage board was a part of them. I have it on my bookshelf next to my stereo and books in my bedroom. I pull it out and look at it once in awhile. But I have never played cribbage with it, it's just not the same.
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