Two points for a pair.

Sir John Suckling invented cribbage in early 1600s England. The game, still popular in pubs, is played with one deck of cards, a cribbage board and colored pegs with which to keep score.

Cribbage is somewhat complicated, but even more than the game itself, the odd terms and conventions confuse beginners. This isn’t surprising considering that the country of origin gives its villages such whimsical names as Pucklechurch, Nether Wallop and Great Snoring. Cribbage terms—his Nob, box, the crib, right Jack and Muggins—confuse as well.  A Muggins, for example, is called when a player doesn’t calculate her score correctly— the difference in points is awarded to the opponent. Good thing for me we’ve never followed that rule.

Peter and I used to play a lot of cribbage. He teased relentlessly when I forgot whose turn it was to play after a “go” or whose turn to cut the cards or, for that matter, even to remember when to cut the cards. In my never ending attempt to keep him engaged now, I wondered if he would try to play again. He surprised me.

Without going further into the myriad details and quirks of the game—this isn’t meant to instruct after all—I’ll just say that Peter plays way better than I thought he would. He remembers to offer the dealer, me, a chance cut the deck and to cut for the “turn-up,” while I remember which direction to peg. He never remembers which color is his and often—on purpose I’m sure—moves my red peg ahead if he and his blue peg are behind.

At first he didn’t seem to remember that a hand with four ten-count cards, a five, and a five turned up was an “even ‘doz,” his words for 12 points. But when I used the phrase I saw the tiniest spark in his eyes that said, oh-h, yeseven ‘doz

Mickey M  kibitzes.

When I forget to add extra points for a hand that is all the same suit (four) or that also matches the turn up suit (five) Peter reminds me with a sly look. I never have been able to remember that when “his Nob” is turned up the dealer gets two points.

He’s remembered the custom to knock sharply on the table to signal either that he can’t play or doesn’t want to cut. Another niggly convention I seldom recall.

It has worked out that whenever we play one of us remembers what the other forgets. Peg two points for the pair we are!

One day I suggested we play Rummy for a change. Nearly every hand, Peter forgot he needed to lay down at least a run of three or three of a kind. It confuses him when I remind him that he can draw from the discard pile if he wants a certain card and is able to play it with something in his hand. I’d just discarded a queen when he asked, “Can I pick that Queen up?”

“Yes, but you have to play her with at least two other Queens, or the King and Jack of hearts.”

He studied his hand then, with a flourish, spread four Queens and three tens across the table.  “OUT!” he said.

I sputtered. “You fooled me again, you cheeky bugger.”

He loves to make me laugh and I love that he still tries.

Header: Peter and Nobby are featured on cards we use.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

The door doesn’t buzz for me.

This wasn’t a stick-of-butter-in-July-sun meltdown. No, it was more like a snowman-in-shade-at-34°F.  It had been lurking for several weeks. Things, little things, had begun to pile up when another snag with our long term insurance company turned me into a weepy, hand-wringing mess.

I don’t cry easily or often, but that day my eyes flooded as I stried to decipher the latest problem. As far as trying to deal with this particular issue, I’d bottomed out. I was doubly upset because I knew had to ask for help. For most people, I think, it is difficult to seek help from family or from anyone else for that matter, or even admit to needing it.

Leslie,  Martin and I were at their river place for the weekend. Les knew something was up and asked several times Friday evening if I wanted to talk. I stalled. “Nope, not yet, not now, not this evening, maybe tomorrow,” I said. But it was Sunday morning before I found my voice. I’d planned to leave by early afternoon to visit Peter, so if I were going to talk, it had to be then. “I’ve lost myself” I think I said, or maybe, more accurately, “I’m lost.”

“You. Are. Not. Getting. Alzheimer’s, Mom. You. Are. Fine.” Leslie reacted as she always does when I joke that I’ll probably have to move in with Peter soon.

“No-o, I know,” I said. “I am forgetful and addled a lot of the time these days, but this has been a really terrible year. The stress has finally gotten to me.”

“It has been terrible,” she agreed. And I thought, awful not just for me trying to bear up, or for Peter trying to understand, but for the rest of the family too, especially Leslie and Carolynn. They’re being brave for me. And strong.

I cringe when friends say how well I handle our situation, because a lot of the time I’m coming unwound. As always, utter panic grips me when I’m faced with bills to pay, numbers to compute, or when anything to do with financial matters smacks me upside the head. I’ve always fallen back on the excuse that I don’t do numbers. I do words.

I have no need to fret, but still I do. Luckily, we have good long term care insurance coverage, but unluckily, the company has penalized me for their own ineptitude more months than not for the seven years I’ve filed claims. Last summer, to deal with worsening, inexcusable treatment, I did what I do best: I wrote a letter and sent it to the company’s CEO. In detail and with exhibits, I described the hurdles I’d had to jump to get reimbursed. That letter got results and a phone call within hours. And within two days the nearly 12 thousand dollars owed were deposited to my account. For nearly six months there were no further hassles. Then it started again, and with other niggly things piled on too, the weight of a year’s worth of anguish bore down.

Slowly, but steadily, I began to melt

Leslie rolled her eyes, not at my fragile state, but because I hadn’t mentioned the issues sooner. “Mo-om, this is something I, we, can help you with. You don’t have to do this on your own. You’ve got enough on your plate!” She was right of course.

Well, now that I’ve exposed my distress here, I realize, once again, I shouldn’t not ask for help. Peter is doing as well as can be expected and I am fine as my daughter reminds everytime I buckle, 

When I left Peter yesterday and walked toward the door into the lobby, the alarm didn’t buzz. I punched in the code anyway. Nothing. I tried again then started to laugh at myself. The alarm didn’t go off because I have no ankle band to trigger it. I can just open the door and leave. Hm, not so funny after all.

Header: Snow storm Banff, British Columbia, August 29, 2010.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.