Double My Duplicate
When I was a child, we often had dinner at my grandmother’s on Friday nights. It was a friendly get-together and while attendance was not mandatory, we were seldom fewer than ten. The stalwart at the head of the table was my grandmother, ancient in my eyes, yet probably not much older than I am now. She had elastic stockings, grey-blue hair and a pronounced bosom.
The food was outstanding every single week, although a few outliers were served, tongue as I recall and a soup made of veal bone marrow (there was always something for those of us who shivered when we looked at bumpy pieces of meat or jellied broth). Desserts ranged from soufflés that never fell to apple pie with either ice cream or cheddar cheese.
We took our time with all the courses but once the meal was finished, we raced away from the table. The apartment was small, the only other rooms being a living room and my grandmother’s bedroom. In her room was a television set and the children dashed to turn it on and to get a seat, as few were available. They piled on the bed and on the floor in order to be nearest to the set to be able to change the channels. If we finished early enough we could watch The Flintstones, although there were always a few boys who opted for Rawhide and a few preteens who wanted Route 66.
I was the outlier here; I didn’t enjoy TV much and the few programs that I favoured weren’t on that evening. I was never allowed to bring my book as I guess that would have been anti-social.
After the kids settled in, I heard moving sounds from the living room. There were crashes and bangs and when I went to investigate, I saw that folding chairs and tables were being brought in from where they were hiding behind the curtains. Before I knew it, eight seats were filled and someone at each table was dealing cards. It happened in a flash and I then I began to hear peculiar words and phrases.
“Three no trump! Four hearts! Double! Redouble!”
“Grand slam! Blackwood!”
Each word was said with great emphasis and I eventually knew not to call them words, but rather, bids. The grown-ups were playing bridge. Evidently this bridge business was serious as the faces were severe, eyes looking at thirteen cards, shielded from a neighbour’s glance by holding them close to the chest.
Unhappy in the TV room, I wandered in and stood behind someone at the table. Sometimes the cards were colourful and had pictures on them and sometimes just numbers. I was about six so I knew what the cards were, although not necessarily the sequences they were arranged in.
“Don’t tell your aunt what’s in my hand.” requested my mother, as if I had any idea of what that meant. Her hand looked fine to me.
“Ginny, why don’t you take a peek at Uncle’s cards and give me an idea.” asked one older cousin, tongue in cheek, I suppose.
I was initially lost but after weeks of looking on, I began to pick up bits and pieces. There was a person called a dummy, which was a word that I was never allowed to use. There was a declarer and contracts and “making it” and “going down.” There were score pads on which mysterious numbers were written and everyone laughed when someone said, “50 points for the insult!” I hadn’t noticed that anyone had been insulted.
Sometimes tempers ran high. “You trumped my ace, you idiot!” “Why didn’t you return my lead?” “Are you even watching my signals?”
It was a mystery. Sometimes someone had to excuse themselves from the table and I was asked to sit in, first as the dummy and then to just hold the cards, and then, with time, to partake. I made a million mistakes but it wasn’t long before I was a regular at the tables.
With time, dinner at grandma’s house fell by the wayside as we all grew up and most of us moved away. I went away to school and didn’t see cards again for many years until I started to play casino with my own children. Some fifty years after my first bridge game, it fell back in my life. Now folks were playing something called duplicate bridge. I knew that it involved moving boards, bidding boxes and computer-kept scores. I tried it and was intrigued. I had the time and while I was so terrified that my hands shook the first time I made a bid, I persisted.
Now that I am almost as old as my grandmother was then, I play twice a week at a local club, each day with a different friend. I love the camaraderie, even though there are always those who haven’t yet figured out that it is indeed just a game.
Some days I feel I am no better at it than I was when I was six. Other days, I shine.
But it will never live up to when I was a child barely able to reach the table.
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This reminds me of sitting at the card table with grandpa and dad learning to play a card game called Tonk. I was 6 or 7 years old. We gambled beads until my mother found out and said we couldn't gamble. My grandmother taught me Solitaire at around 7 or 8. By 12 I was playing hearts, gin, and euchre. At 21 years old I started dealing blackjack for a living and that evolved into dealing dice and led a life-long career in casino gaming. At 62 I learned to deal and play poker. Funny how that simple game of Tonk started a love affair with cards and games that never really quit, I still play games for entertainment and socialization today.
In my family, my parents played regularly with my aunt and uncle. Bridge was one of the only arenas where my father had more power than my mother and he reveled in it. Every time they sat down to play, they all put money in the kitty which they later used to take vacations together. A lost culture.