Winter Solace

It was a good news/bad news kind of day today at the Bridge Center. Well, I take that back...it was actually a good news/bad news/bad news day.

The good news is the Maya were wrong - the world didn't end as their calendar had predicted. It turns out the reason the Mayan calendar ended on December 21 is simply because they ran out of paper. Naturally the global population made much more of it than was warranted, as they usually do.

The bad news is a different story. Bad news #1 - my bridge partner and I came in last today and it mostly had to do with a math skill I do not possess called subtraction. What is it about 13 minus 8 that is so complicated? Twice I miscounted trump.

Bad news #2 is a little sadder. Having missed a bit of bridge lately, I wasn't exactly sure what the Christmas party schedule was this year. But it being four days before Christmas, I assumed there would be some gaiety and good cheer today.

So driving over to the Bridge Center on this cold and blustery winter's day - the roads thick with ice and the winds rattling my car - I dreamed of the food table filled with cake and pie and maybe ham. I danced and sang my way through the door and what did I see when I entered? Only an empty deviled egg container. No feast. No merrymaking. Just tupperware. I guess the party was held on Monday.

So I missed the Christmas party - the cake, the pie, the ham - and we were dead last in the game. But at least there will be a tomorrow.

2 over 1 - cliff hanger resolution

When spring was in full bloom, the fearless four walked out of class ready to dominate the bridge table with one more tool in the old toolbox - 2 over 1. I almost looked with disdain upon those less equipped as the flurry of games began again and classes were now behind us.

We got back into the routine of playing at the usual places - the Bridge Center, Woodstock and friend's houses - and Cindy and I would say before each game, and I mean EACH game, "Ok, remember to play 2 over 1." Ok! 

Weeks went by. Spring turned to summer and summer fall - 2 over 1 never showed itself. Fall was on the verge of winter and... still...nothing. We were Vladimir and Estragon waiting for Godot. 

Then one day, when the frost was on the pumpkin, we played a hand that made 6 hearts and we only bid 2,  Cindy said, "I bid 2 diamonds over your heart opening." I answered dully, "So." "That was 2 over 1!!" She said excitedly. I was dumbfounded. I'd not only forgotten about the convention, I didn't even recognize it when it was right in front of me.

Then the following week, Cindy opened a spade and I responded 2 diamonds, my heart racing but my exterior cool and calm. She passed. We made 4. It was Cindy's turn for dumbfoundedness. It went on like this for weeks until I had had enough. 

Now what I'm about to tell you is not only shameful, but inexcusable. And it is all true:

We are at Woodstock. I take my hand out of the tray. I count my points - 13. Cindy opens a spade and I have five hearts. My interior dialog: "OMG! Here it is. We are NOT going to miss this." I reach into the bidding box and with a flourish so dramatic I could have been on stage at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, I lay down the 2 hearts bidding card. She doesn't pass! She rebids her spades! We get to slam! SHE GOT IT! WE DID IT.  It was amazing. It was spectacular. It was... so illegal.

Would Cindy have figured it out without my attention drawing gesture? Maybe. Did I think I this was inappropriate? Not at the time, but was I at a point so desperate I would have tried anything? Apparently, but as I said earlier, it was inexcusable.

So 2 over 1 and I are not friends. It reduced me to the lowest common denominator (see, I was right - fractions were involved) and made me ashamed of myself. And I regret the day we met.

2 over 1 - is not fun

Late last year with the new year ahead of us and visions of many winning bridge games dancing in our heads, Cindy, Joan, Barb and I took a class called 2 over 1. At first I thought is had something to do with fractions and wanted no part of it. Then I was told, "Oh no - it's a very important game forcing bid. It will really help you get to the best game contract and explore slam possibilities." Well, I thought, who doesn't want to explore slam possibilities once in awhile??

So for eight intense weeks we went to class, took notes and studied. We learned: when 2/1 applies (not very often) and when it doesn't (more times than when it does); the advantages of 2/1 (not very many); 1 no trump forcing (messes up all you ever knew about a 1 no trump response); opener's rebid (too many to remember); responder's rebid (ditto); control showing bids (now it's definitely time to get out the gin bottle); the principal of fast arrival (sounds like some sort of sexual problem to me).

We duly completed the class and were sent out into the world. We were told we were ready- that everyone is playing this way, that more and more people convert every day and it would vastly improve our game.

Were they right? Were we ready to go out into that jungle and perhaps explore slam possibilities? Were we going to show them all what we were made of and take our game to the next level???

You'll never believe it when I tell you what happened...

To be continued...

If Only...

If only I didn't love dachshunds. If I didn't love dachshunds, I wouldn't have one and I wouldn't have taken her to the vet last Monday. And if I hadn't taken her to the vet last Monday, I could have gone to "Loaded Baked Potato Day" at the Bridge Center. It was a roaring success, I'm told.

It was the NLM's day to shine. Many times the Life Masters have invited us to share in their bounty (except when they didn't) and it was high time we hosted a luncheon for a change. So Monday was the day all were invited by the NLM group to "get loaded at the Bridge Center" (the potatoes...get the potatoes loaded).

Four kindly volunteers roasted eight dozen spuds and still others brought toppings, both traditional and the not-so-much. Cheeses, chives, bacon and butter; salsa, broccoli, cauliflower and lettuce; chili, barbecue and...tuna fish? Complete with dessert and salad, not a person went hungry. 

But what about the beverage, you ask? Served with the taters was "Rebecca's Bourbon Slush" a most delightful drink that I had the pleasure of trying a few years ago at the Center. Recipe follows, but let me just say it was a big hit. People loved it. In fact, one of my sources said that some people loved it too much. Apparently several partnerships weren't playing up to their usual high level after a few glasses of slush, said my source, so I can only conclude that the potatoes weren't the only things getting loaded at the Bridge Center last Monday. 

Rebecca's Bourbon Slush

2 cups hot tea

1/2 cup sugar

6 ounce frozen orange juice

6 ounce frozen limeade

12 ounce frozen lemonade

6 cups water

2 cups bourbon (or 1 1/2 cups and 1/2 cup amaretto)

Dissolve sugar in hot tea. Mix all ingredients together and freeze. Stir every 6 to 8 hours for two days before serving.

Talk About the Dangerous Hand!!

As mentioned in the last post, one of the culprits who changed polite, manicured-nails, martini bridge to serious, conventioned-laden, headache bridge was Ely Culbertson. Following Harold Vanderbilt's bright idea in 1925 to change auction bridge to contract bridge by tweaking the score and making the game riskier, Culbertson took it upon himself to promote it.

One of the tools he used was his magazine Bridge World. According to Maggie Simony's book The Bridge Table, by the November 1929 edition, the magazine was reporting that a murder had taken place over the game.

It was seasonably balmy in Kansas City that night when four friends gathered to play bridge at the Bennett's apartment. The men had played golf earlier in the day and the women had been busy preparing a sumptuous supper.

Late in the evening Myrtle was dummy to John's (her partner and husband) 4 spades contracts. He went down two tricks; she complained; he slapped her; she got a gun and shot him twice in the back while he tried to run. Shocking!

Even more shocking - she got away with it. Evidence and witnesses notwithstanding, it was a smooth-talking defense attorney and a beautiful, weeping defendant that claimed victory.

But many think it was an additional fact that was discovered which also helped poor, sobbing Myrtle not only get acquitted but collect insurance as well - in an earlier hand, John had trumped her ace.

After that was revealed, bridge players across the country agreed -this was indeed justifiable homicide.

The Good Old Days

Bridge in the olden days sounded so lovely. I didn't start playing until the 21st century and therefore never knew olden day bridge, but I yearn for it nevertheless. 

From the beginning, I learned contract bridge and its myriad conventions and I have the copious books, notes, crib sheets and headaches to prove it. But there was a time, I am told, when bridge was pleasant and lovely and much easier and there were no books telling you how to bid, play or defend. 

In those days all you needed was a manicure, three other players and a pitcher of martinis chilling in the "electric refrigerator" to sip on between playing and chatting. If I sipped martinis and chatted while playing today's bridge, well, I was going to say I wouldn't be able to tell a heart from a spade but that can happen to me sober and quiet.

Ladies would start with luncheon at noon, play throughout the afternoon, stop at 4 o'clock for coffee or a fresh batch of 'tinis, then play until 6 o'clock clearing out before the man of the house returned. Then the Mrs. would set up the vacuum so the afternoon appeared constructive.

It turns out I have two people to blame for this change in bridge from pleasant to petrifying - Harold Vanderbilt who invented contract bridge and Ely Culbertson who mercilessly promoted it.
After these two scoundrels got involved, social bridge turned into serious bridge and that...led...to...MURDER!

To be continued.... 

The Ace Got Ducked

 My legs are black and blue from kicking myself. I've had to resort to wearing long pants in the 90 degree heat to hide the wounds. All because of a chapter in a book called: Watson's Classic Book on the Play of the Hand at Bridge that I've been reading. 

The author of the book, Louis H. Watson, has been the cause of much consternation for me and I sometimes have mean thoughts about him after slogging through one of his incredibly thorough and detailed chapters. But since he wrote this book in 1934, chances are pretty good he has passed on so thoughts such as those would be disrespectful.

Mr. Watson has been attempting to teach me, albeit from the grave, how to play bridge, because Lord knows no one else has been able to, and I admire his patience in this endeavor. The other day I read the chapter called "Ducking." From what I gathered, ducking is the refusal to take a trick for the first few rounds to prevent the opponents from establishing a suit. 

So I had the ace of clubs and I saw that the declarer had the king, queen, jack and so on in dummy. Light bulb moment! Hold up the ace so she can't get to those clubs! Yea! I saw the whole chaper in my mind. She runs out of clubs and can't get to dummy! So I let it go a few rounds and I finally played my ace with a smirk on my face and... she... trumps... it. Idiot! 

I was so involved in recalling the finer points of the chapter that I forgot we were in a suit contract and not no-trump. Learning bridge for me is like a zero sum game - every time I learn something new, something else has to go.

I've decided one thing I can do is start wearing slippers to the Bridge Center to prevent further bruising on my legs in the future. 

Why You Should Never Not Play Bridge on Friday the 13th

Recently - well, Friday the 13th actually - I had blocked out the day to play bridge but my partner couldn't make it. With no one to play with I reluctantly left the Bridge Center, almost walking under a ladder leaning haphazardly against the side of the building. Successfully avoiding that imperilment, I drove off thinking of ways to contructively fill my day. 

An unexpectedly free day is like a gift, I thought postively, to do with whatever I want. I felt like a newborn babe, a blank slate. It was the first day of the rest of my life, and so on. 

There was an important sale at the mall with 50% savings, so that would be worthwhile checking out. A black cat crossed in front of me as I approached the mall entrance and, momentarily stunned at the potential consequence of that, I didn't see the woman hurrying past when she bumped me and her double frappuccino popped opened spilling all over me. Luckily I was wearing brown. 

After sopping that up I was no longer in the mood for shopping. I got back in my car and looked at the rumpled brown bag that contained my pathetic lunch and decided I would eat at my favorite place, one I don't get to that often.

Humming a merry song, I drove to the Mexican restaurant and grabbed a table in a quiet corner looking forward to a spicy burrito. Before sitting, I ran into the ladies' room to wash off the remaining frappuccino. The light in the rest room was off and when I turned it on, I saw it. The mirror had a huge crack across it. I am not kidding. But I put that out of my mind, washed my hands thoroughly (singing "Happy Birthday" twice) and returned to my little table. 

While I was waiting for the server, an unkempt man with a very loud and gravely voice walked into the restaurant shouting something about his bike tire being slashed. He ranted but no one paid any attention. I was a little startled but figured someone would surely escort him out. No. He came over to my quiet corner and sat at a table right next to me.

"I swear someone has a vendetta out against me," he said, apparently to me. "Do you believe this? Oh my god, I  don't understand why they would do this..." and he kept on raving, his wild eyes staring at me the whole time.

When the server came to take my order, I said I had changed my mind about having lunch and got up from the table, knocking the salt shaker to the floor. I stared at the spilt salt and thought about how safe I would be if only I was at the Bridge Center. No one would be shouting at me and I would not have dried frappuccino on my shirt. Plus none of their mirrors are cracked, as far as I know.


 I went home and spent the rest of the my unexpected gift hiding under the covers waiting for the dawning of Saturday the 14th.

And The Story Continues...

An addendum to the most recent post!! There is more to the cake story!!!

As you might remember, a few weeks ago there was an affair hosted by the Life Masters group. But an edict was issued to the townspeople of NLM: "Do NOT go in there."

Fine, they said. At least some said that. But there was one who rebelled. She wasn't going to take it! She was an American and she was wrought from the revolutionary spirit! (Or maybe she just didn't hear the announcement??)


At any rate, she fearlessly walked into the banquet, head held high. She quietly took a plate. Foresaking all other tempting treats, she proceeded to the jello mold area of the buffet and helped herself to the wiggly green refreshment. 

She turned bravely and walked back into the NLM room, jello in hand. The chattering stopped. Packaging was silenced. You could hear a score sheet drop. It started with one sole clap and then the whole room erupted in thundering applause! Hooray, American rebel! Hooray for your independence! Eat your jello, they shouted, and enjoy your freedom! It was an exhilarating moment (I am told).

Indeed, she is a true American hero and just in time for Independence Day!

Let Them Eat Cake!

A funny thing happened on the way to the Bridge Center this month. Life. Life happened on my way to bridge and I missed a few weeks. So my friends had to update me on the latest news.

Apparently the Life Masters had another party. The bouquet of delectable delights once again floated into the NLM room, completely obliterating the aroma of Chex Mix and yogurt. 

But there was to be no invitation this time. "You have been asked NOT to go into the Life Masters' room and share in their meal today," said the director. "They are having a catered event and they've asked that you NOT go in there."

As you can imagine, there was (I am told) a lot of hubbub and chatter amongst the NLM players at this announcement. People were indignant and tore into their pre-packaged food items a little more spitefully than normal. Chex Mix was crunched harder and yogurt cups were scraped louder.

But as NLM are wont to be, they were gracious. They (allegedly) smiled politely when the Life Masters walked through the room in the middle of their game disturbing the NLM concentration and bumping into their chairs (not meaning to, of course - it's just very tight in there). They sat tall in their seats and valiantly deposited their quarter for a tiny Kit Kat or miniature Tootsie Roll from the candy basket when their sweet tooth ached, even though the smell of fluffy desserts drifted dangerously past their nostrils.

As the story goes, however, this dignified comportment must have paid off. The following week a different announcement was made. "The Life Masters have invited you in for cake today. Only four people at a time and be very quiet." Marie Antoinette would have been pleased.

But, seriously, the Life Masters are always generous when they have parties and we thank them for it. I just wish the NLM could cook.

Soup Kitchen Day

I could have been walking into my grandmother's kitchen, for the savory smells that wafted past my nose - but then neither of my grandmothers could cook so it had to be something else. In fact, I was walking into the Bridge Center and the only explanation for the delectable bouquet was a PARTY! It was party day in the Life Masters' room! Or what I like to call, Soup Kitchen Day.

Roast beef, fried chicken, cheesy potatoes...need I say more? Ok. Chocolate cake, lemon cookies and something wonderful with lots of whipped cream all over it, too. We of the non-life-masters ilk were informed by our director, "You have been invited to get some lunch if there's anything left when they are through." But we were instructed that only four people could go in the room at a time and we must be very quiet so as not to disturb the players.

Our game is played right through lunchtime so we NLMs have to bring our lunches. We have been admonished NOT to bring anything with an unpleasant oder that would cause discomfort to other players so tuna salad is banned and probably limburger cheese sandwiches as well. My partner eats Chex Mix and candy. Barb always has yogurt. I enjoy baloney.

But on Soup Kitchen Day the baloney goes in the trash and I line up like a homeless person to get my share of delicious. 

The hospitality break was declared, it was time to get in line. But I was at the wrong end of the room. Oh, no! It would take an olympian to get past all the tables and players and in the line before time was up. I sprinted. I hurdled. I high jumped. But to no avail. I was ninth. Four were in the party room filling their plates and four were in line ahead of me. 

I peeked past the people in front of me and saw swirls of steam rise from the warming pans. I saw the fluffy white whipped cream delight sitting haughtily among the lesser desserts. Then the buzzer rang. Time was up. I dolefully turned away, retrieved my sandwich from the trash and went to my next table.  



 

Shanty Town

It was spring at its finest - warm, bright, refreshingly breezy - so I was surprised to see the Bridge Center so packed. I thought maybe gardening or golfing might trump cards that day. 

But when I walked in, the room was filled from the candy table all the way to shanty town. "Shanty town" is what I call the area on the far end of the room right outside the men's room. When there are a lot of players, one or two more tables are squeezed in over there in a most unpleasant manner and just inches from the bathroom door. The only thing missing from shanty town is a clothesline draped with torn undergarments.

So the game was well attended and Cindy and I were back to playing there together for the first time since winter. Our focus was laser-like, our bidding on target and we played the hands like our lives depended on it. We came in first! First out of all those players! We got 62.30% and 1.87 points. 

I was so proud of us the glow stayed with me all afternoon and evening. That night I was watching a movie in which the main character said a line that threatened to douse it. He said:

"A man learns nothing from winning. The act of losing however, elicits much wisdom."

I pooh-poohed that nonsense until the following week when we didn't even get on the board. It was then I saw the sagacity in those words and I was glowing again - this time with wisdom. 

I Play Bridge, Therefore I Am?

       It was bittersweet, I'll admit. I was leaving the land of palm trees and azaleas but was returning home to redbuds and tulips. Behind me were Posey, Ducky and Jaz but ahead were normal named people like Cindy, Joan and Barb.

       My first Tuesday back found me at Woodstock. The club looked beautiful -  floors and furniture polished and gleaming,  vases filled with spring flowers.

       On my way to the card room, a friend called to me.  He's a member there and was meeting someone on business.

       "So what brings you to Woodstock?" he asked.
       "Bridge."
       "What?"
       "I'm here to play bridge."
       "Bridge? Are you serious? You're playing bridge?"
        I nodded.
       "Wow," he said staring at me in disbelief. "You've really sold out."

       I immediately went into defense mode. "What?? What do you mean? Bridge is fun and it's really challenging and - and I bet you can't even play. Try it, just try it sometime. It's hard..." I was beginning to babble so I turned from my accuser feeling like a four-year old who'd been told her mother wore army boots and continued on into the card room.

       The truth is he hit a nerve. Had I sold out? Have I spent too much time at a card table and not enough at something more productive? When I'm on my death bed will I look back and regret not devoting more of my life to loftier goals?

       I decided to take comfort in the words of author Kurt Vonnegut, who hailed from my hometown. He said something like, "I swear we are on earth to fart around and don't let anyone tell you different."

     So there.


       

       

Have You Heard The One About...

       Peggy, my Charleston bridge partner, was in Machu Picchu on a mountain ridge 8,000 feet above sea level in South American when her cell phone rang. "I couldn't believe it even worked there," she said. Who would be calling her? A dire emergency, no doubt? No, it was Lyndsey the bridge director for the game we play in. She wanted to know if we were playing that week. Apparently there's  no getting away from bridge, no matter how far you go.

       Obviously Peggy wasn't going to be able to play that week, but she had arranged for me to play with Jackie, the 80 plus year-old widow she plays with in my absence. 


       So Jackie and I met before the game to discuss bidding techniques but I wasn't excited about it. You know how it is when you play with someone new and you don't have a sense of how they play. Plus Peggy and I just always have fun together.

       We sat in the grill and Jackie ordered a glass of Sauvignon Blanc - my favorite. She talked about her five kids and life in Atlanta where she's from - interesting. She told me about her husband, her hobbies and her travels - fascinating. And the topper was the blonde joke she told - the one about the blonde who got on the plane to Montreal and sat in first class but didn't have a ticket. Heard that? Well, anyway the point is she was hysterical and she can tell a great joke, not something everyone can do. We had a blast and played several times together.

       I guess there's a moral to this blog post today - well, maybe two. You can't judge a bridge partner by her age and don't go all the way to Machu Picchu to try to escape from bridge because it turns out cell phones work there.

     

 

Bridge and Grits

       Posey Fontaine. Her name alone evokes the unique beauty that is the old south...moss draped live oaks, grand antebellum mansions...
       
       Posey is in one of my bridge groups (group count is now up to six for a game I insist I'm not addicted to...) this one located in Charleston, South Carolina. She could charm the "blue out of the sky" to quote a favorite southern writer down here. She always looks nice - smartly dressed; hair in place; flawless skin She lost her husband Felix three years ago and now plays bridge EVERY day. 

        I hadn't played in this game since last year but when I walked into the church assembly room where the game is held, Posey came right up to me and said, "Whale-cum bay-uk, sweetie! We've missed y'all!" This after being gone for a year. "How y'all doin'. How's y'husband's new hee-up?" The hip is a year old.

        I sat with her while she finished her ham salad sandwich - homemade and ground from her famous recipe baked ham, basted with coke and (lots of ) bourbon. 

       So when Peggy (my partner here who's actually a Yankee from Rhode Island) and I played against Posey and Joyce we were in 3NT, with yours truly the declarer. Peggy laid down her hand and the table collectively sighed at the SEVEN diamonds she displayed. Believe it or not - I know this is a hard one - but after the Ace and King were knocked out I played my Jack to low in dummy instead of overtaking with the Queen and...whoops... I HAD NO ENTRIES BACK. Seven diamonds might as well have been seven lumps of coal. We went down FOUR!

       Posey was very upset by this turn of events. She gently put her hand on my arm and said, "I am just so sorray. I just hate doin' this to y'all." She felt so badly I thought SHE might cry. I left the table consoling HER!

       ...or did I just get played by that legendary southern charm??  




     

Smokin' Elegant

       Barb emailed a most interesting article from the Wall Street Journal the other day. It was about Maggy Simony, a 92 year-old Floridian who has been trying to bring bridge back to its early-to-middle 20th-century elegance. 
       
       She had enjoyed the game with her husband and friends for years. A bridge gathering in those days involved elaborate meals and hours of socializing. Tea sandwiches, canapes, Waldorf salad and chicken a la king were commonly served and gossip, er, news about the community was shared over homemade cream puffs. She laments the fading of that era beginning in the early 1970s. In fact, the article points out, bridge playing in general has declined over the years, with membership in the ACBL dwindling.
       
       Well, I would like to lift Ms. Simony's spirits and tell her, we are trying to keep the tradition going. In the winter months, a group of us meets in each others' homes for bridge and while I've yet to see a tea sandwich, we've had lovely lunches complete with delightful desserts and "news" sharing.

       Why, one afternoon our hostess even served up a little excitement with lunch when she left her pot holder in the oven with the chicken casserole. Smoke billowed out of the kitchen and we had to open all the downstairs windows to fan the fumes out. Coughing and hacking we were able to save the place before it all went up in flames!
       
       So while we need to work a bit more on the "elegance", we are trying hard to retain the spirit of the golden age of bridge. Even if it kills us.

The 8 of Clubs Was Good???

       Cindy and I recently started branching out and playing with other partners. We now play together every third game and with Barb and Joan the interim games. Consequently the skill level in Cindy's interim games has gone up a notch and I needed to get up to speed.

       So it was a pleasant winter's day, sunny and unseasonably warm, when Cindy and I played together for the first time in several weeks. I was anxious to play well and was trying hard to fully concentrate on the game and not write mental grocery lists or think about recent phone conversations with my son.

       I bought the 4 hearts contract. I made my plan and found I needed another trick. I studied the board. I studied my hand. I wasn't seeing it. I commenced play, cashed in nine tricks and was stumped. I implemented the squeeze play, always an option when you don't have a clue what else to do, but I went down. I felt awful.

       "So sorry, partner," I said, not for the first time in my bridge career.

       "That 8 of clubs on the board was good," my helpful left-hand opponent pointed out. "Did you know that?" I had no reply. "You had the clubs set up and you didn't take that 8," she explained. Thoughtful of her.

       I nodded and moved on to the next table. My mind was spinning. "The 8 of clubs was good? How the heck was I supposed to know the 8 of clubs was good. Who would have thought an 8 would be good? I didn't even set up the damn clubs, at least not consciously. I can't keep track of all those different suits - two different colors, four different shapes, all those numbers and those three ghastly people dressed in strange 15th century clothing!"

       On my way home I pulled into the grocery and was surprised when I knew off the top of my head that we needed olive oil, fabric softener, and black peppercorns. And out of the blue I thought about my son's arm that he injured recently skiing. He told me about it on the phone last night...oops! The 8 of clubs was good but it looks like my concentration wasn't. Gotta work on that a little. 

       

  

Oh, The People You'll Meet

       When I took up the game of bridge, all I wanted to do was get out of the house and hang out with friends. The Bridge Center  seemed a better alternative to the local tavern. I had no idea the fascinating people I would meet.

       Ed Holcomb of Gloversville, New York and Charleston, South Carolina was one. When I met him five years ago I was shocked to learn he was 88 years old. Fit and sharp and still handsome, he and his wife Nan, who was 90, were having dinner with the group before our bridge game when Nan got chilly. I saw Ed quickly finish up his dinner and say he would be back before the game started. Twenty-eight minutes and one pale blue sweater later, Ed returned. He had driven 12 miles back to their home just to keep Nan comfortable.

       He was a brilliant physician. His credentials include Chief of Staff and Chief of Medicine at Nathan Littauer Hospital in Gloversville, New York; and Captain of the U.S. Army Medical Corps during WWII. He was an avid sailor and the oldest active fencer with the United States Fencing Team. He was an intelligent, generous and kind man.

       His son told us about the cabin his dad built by hand for their family in the Adirondacks in the early 60s. He used wood from an old ramshackle barn. One night friends in a neighboring cabin had drunk so much beer they had a tower of empty beer cans. Ed decided to use the tin cans (pre-aluminum) and build a radio antenna. Sure enough his son remembers being able to get a station out of Madagascar. Who does this kind of stuff?

       But he had me when he walked in with Nan's sweater. Rest in peace, Ed.

Portrait of an Artist

       

       The cold, drab walls of our Bridge Center have been warmed with color lately. There is a young artist among us. But they said he wouldn't be.

       Several years ago, his mother opened their front door in the middle of the night to a sheriff and a chaplain. They said to hurry, that he didn't have long. The doctors said he wouldn't make it through the next 24 hours.

       But they misjudged and underestimated. Not only his strength and resilience, but his mother's faith and devotion, and his friends' prayers and vigilance.

       "Bridge was my only outlet," said his mother. She managed his care 24/7/365. When she could, she broke to read her bridge books or play in games. "It was my only escape," she said. She concentrated so completely on bridge that, for a very short time, she was free from the enormity and consequences of the horrific car accident that they all said would take her son's life.

       He lived, shocking the medical staff, and his talent exploded. She became a master bridge player. Brock's paintings now add beauty and warmth to our Bridge Center, but they are also evidence of what faith, hope, strength, dedication and a mother's undying love can do.

Hail Mary Bridge

     
       Woodstock is an elegant, old country club where a group of bridge players sometimes goes for the Tuesday game.

       Apparently Woodstock is undergoing some renovation and workmen were going in and outdoors all morning. A cold January wind blew into the card room chilling the players. Poor Alma Graham's nearly frozen left hand was gripping her cards so tightly, she could barely pick one of them out with her frozen right hand.

     Cindy and I, donned in coats and scarves, were playing against Betsy Parker. I observed as Betsy worked on an impossible 4 Hearts contract. I thought I had the defeating card, but of course she outsmarted me. She played a card from dummy, I played second hand low. She played a ten and my partner had nothing higher. Betsy won the trick she needed. 

     “I had not choice,” Betsy said later. “If that play didn’t work I was going down, so I had to do it.”

     I thought about that and how often you just have to go for it - otherwise you are going down. You have to make a decision and hope for the best.

       Like when I was driving my son to the airport. We left later than we should have and he was probably going to miss his flight. I thought: If we don't take the highway, we don't have a chance. But traffic delays this time of day could doom us. I had to make a decision and quick.

       I crossed my fingers (which is hard to do while driving), took the highway, and he made his flight with minutes to spare. I had smoothly outsmarted my opponents! 

Partner Pride

        As the mercury descends, Joe gets out his winter sweaters. Today at the Bridge Center he had on a hand-knit oatmeal-colored number with three large purple tulips splashed across the chest.

     “Wow. That’s a beautiful sweater, Joe.” I said.

     “Well, I’ve got to do something when they lock the doors of the Center,” he replied.

     “YOU made that?”

     “Yes. My wife cooks and I knit.”

     Now Joe's partner Hank may not knit but he can hum a pretty good tune. Whenever he's the declarer he hums away. It must help him concentrate and it certainly helped with the tough 4 Spade contract he made. The round ended with Joe and Hank royally kicking Cindy and me.

       As fun as it was to hear about Joe’s knitting skills and to listen to Hank’s melodic hymn, I felt awful at bridge today. I let my partner down. She bid 2 clubs after my no trump bid and I completely forgot it was Stayman. I responded 3 clubs and if looks could kill...

     But my partner is gracious. She forgave me and said it’s only one game. I left humming. 

 

Bridge Blues

          It was a rainy day AND a Monday. My brown eyes were blue. I was thinking of giving up bridge. 

        I’m just not getting better. I’ve reached a plateau, like when you diet and you don’t lose any more weight. Everyone around me seems to be doing well- racking up points, getting Rookie of the Month -  and all I am is confused.

        Last week before our game, I was listening to our opponents as they discussed their bidding techniques:

“Do you play Cappelletti?”

“Ha ha. Well, we call it Hamilton but I think it’s the same thing.”

“Ha ha. Yes, I believe you’re right! What about Leaping Michaels?”

       Seriously?

       They won all three boards and played as smoothly as Duke Ellington on the eighty-eights.

           I felt I was spending too much time on something I may not be cut out for. The definition of insanity came to mind: “doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”

       So when the game ended, I disconsolately walked over to our club manager and asked her if a player with my (lack of ) ability should continue playing this game.

       She answered wisely: “Play at your level and you will always enjoy the game.”

       I can’t express how that one statement helped. I didn’t want to quit bridge. I had made friends there. I had fun there. They had good food there.

       I’m just going to take more lessons. 

A Bridge All-Star

      
         Barbara looked drained today. She needed a lot of help getting inside the Center and over to her favorite place at table 5. She was weak and pale and I noticed she had stopped wearing her colorful hand-knit caps. “They irritate my skin. I’m going au natural,” she said. When she got to the north seat, she put her head down for a minute. She said it wore her out just to walk across the room. But she was there and soon she revived and began playing.

         I was sitting on the other side of the room looking at her with her bald head and bruises up and down both arms when it occurred to me. I walked over to her and said, “Barbara, I hope you don’t take this wrong because I don’t mean to be insensitive, but do you realize you look like an NBA player?”

         I explained her head, shaved and shining, looked the way some basketball players’ heads do. And her arms from the multiple chemo treatments looked less bruised and more tattooed, until you got a little closer and saw there was no real form to the marks. But from a distance she looked remarkably like she could play for the Trail Blazers or the Bulls.

         She laughed, much to my relief, and at the end of the game she came over and asked, “Who did you say I looked like? A CEO? I want to tell my son what you said.” I corrected the acronym and she said, “Well, it’s my chemo brain. I can’t remember anything.” 

   
         She placed 2nd in the game today, chemo brain notwithstanding. She ate chocolate, her favorite food group, and said it was a very good day at the Bridge Center, all in all.

 

No Sweat???

    
     “Let’s all move please! Finish your hands and move for the next round.”

     That was not good to hear. I had just started the hand and it was time to move. It was a 3 No Trump contract and I only saw five tricks. Where was I going to find four more?

     Bridge players were beginning to move around the room. East-west pairs were moving to their next tables. The chatting, the rustling of score sheets and the squeaking of Styrofoam coffee cups was distracting. And to make matters worse, our east-west replacements were standing impatiently by our table waiting for us to finish.

     ...I need to set up my diamond suit....

     “It’s time to move!” the director once again bellowed.

     I was starting to sweat, the cards sticking to my hands. The pressure was building until my eyeballs felt like they were going to shoot out of my head. What did Noel say?...Take your losses early?...

     “Can we please have boards 23 and 24 so we can get started?” asked the next table. East-west replacements were now tapping their feet fretfully, one of them crunching loudly on Chex-Mix.

     ...I needed to hurry it up.

     ...if I duck the ace and lose a trick the rest of my diamonds should be good...but the opponents have to lead a club for me to get back in... and...they...do! Cashing in my four tricks, I make the contract! Whew! 

     I was still shaking when I stumbled over to the next table with nary a moment to collect myself before the next hand started.

     Driving home from the Club I thought, how can a mere game be so high-pressure and stressful? I am worn out, beat, exhausted...and next week I get to do it all again! Yea!

     

A Student of the Game

      I continue to take lessons in Play of the Hand, Defense, Popular Conventions - you name it. And I also play two or three times times a week. 

      I’m beginning to feel the need to go to a place where you say, “My name is Elizabeth and I am a bridge player.” Am I an addict? I’m not sure. But I am definitely hooked. And this is strange because I have never been a card player and didn’t know a thing about bridge until the day I walked into the Center.

  The only experience I had with bridge were memories of my grandparents playing every weekend with their friends. We have old pictures of them sitting in their den in the 1940s, my grandmother in heels, a knit dress and pearls, my grandfather in a jacket. Their friends are sitting with them at a bridge table, that I now own, and four refreshing looking cocktails are perched at the corners. 

  But I play and struggle and thank the stars above for my new bridge partner Cindy. Holly has abandoned me for the balmier climes of Florida. Cindy is not new to bridge but she brushes up while I learn and she has become my friend as well as fellow empty-nester.

  The other day we played in a game and received 0.28 point. Our first fraction of a point! It was something to celebrate. I remembered to pass with 5 or fewer points! And when I got home from being at the Bridge Center all day, my son had left three messages on my phone. His last one said, “Well, it looks like you’ve adjusted to me being out of the house. You’re gone all the time.” 

  I’m gonna make it after all.....