Shut up and deal

Pinochle

It has been said that prowess at the billiard table is often the sign of a misspent youth. Any advantage I may have at the bridge table is not because I started playing bridge at an early age, or even in college as many players have. I was thirty five before I discovered that bridge was more fun than the avocation of my youth, pinochle.

As soon as I could hold 12 cards in my little hands I was drafted into the weekend pinochle marathon. My granny, Ada, had been a widow forever. Friday evening when dad came home from labor as a lithograph pressman, he had grandma in tow.
Dinner, if you could call it that, was scarfed down in a matter of minutes so that the game could begin. I would partner dad or mom so that grandma would not be saddled with the novice. Ten cents a game and five cents for each set back. My puny allowance was at stake.

At least we did not stay up too late, since both mom and grandma had been brought up on the farm. On the flip side, though, it was early to rise! Cinnamon toast and a glass of milk and we were under way for the morning session. Saturday and Sunday were pretty much the same, with only time out for brief meals to sustain the stamina needed for “the game” Sunday evening ended with the winners gloating and the losers promising revenge. Dad takes grandma home, anticipating next weekend’s respite from the dreary work week.

Jack of Diamonds, Queen of Spades