When I turned 60 in December, I was sad to bid my 50s goodbye. I'd loved that decade, during which I'd learned to ride a unicycle, crochet, and play the accordion. I'd begun writing poetry. I felt wise but not old. Physically strong. At ease with myself.
How can my 60s top that? They probably won't. But during the past few weeks, as my dad's been teaching me to play Bridge, I've felt a welcome surge of happiness: I am again learning a new skill.
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Last month, knowing my dad was missing his Bridge group back at Friendship Haven, I found an online Bridge site for him. And since he needed help with the computer, I was at his side while he played. I began asking questions. He explained why he was making this bid or leading that card.
I soon found myself clicking on a tutorial section for beginners. As I progressed through modules, I read parts aloud to my dad, quizzed him on terminology and asked for further explanation.
Computer Bridge became one of my mid-afternoon diversions of choice. It not only provided my dad a chance to play the game he loves, and slide into the role of expert, it also was fun for me.
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Then yesterday my dad kicked it up a notch: he invited me to try 3-handed Bridge. This involved my mom, who has played the game for decades, but never to my dad's level of skill or enthusiasm.
Nevertheless, my mother is, in her bones, a good sport. If she was game, so was I.
So yesterday we made our first attempts at a complicated version of a complicated game. One player (Dad) knew what he was doing. One player (me) barely knew what she was doing. One player (Mom) immediately forgot what she was doing.
But we had fun! My parents indulged my second-guessing and need for clarification on esoteric moves; my dad and I accommodated Mom's need for ongoing reminders of which suit was trump; my mom and I endured Dad's penchant for over-explaining each card we'd misplayed.
In other words, we granted each other maximum grace in order to keep our Bridge Lite game afloat. Our tenuous arrangement required all of us to give a little. The dynamic was in balance: we also got our own needs met.
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Tonight my parents ate supper early: bratwurst on fresh Hy-Vee buns, steamed broccoli with brown rice, baby greens salad, and a bowl of tiny fresh strawberries from the farmers market! (Obviously, I'm in need of some positive reinforcement.)
This gave us a 45-minute window before Klondike Bars and movie time.
"Would you like to play some 3-handed Bridge?" I asked.
My dad agreed eagerly. My mom came along for the ride. We then laughed and scolded each other through another three deals. When my dad won, he gloated. My mother quipped, "Have you ever seen a head so big?"
"He may be the winner," I said, "but he has no friends!"
My mother and I shared full-throated laughs while my dad couldn't help smiling himself.
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Our 3-handed Bridge was unorthodox. We bantered and rescinded bids and engaged in outrageous table talk. At one point my dad devolved into a labyrinthic explanation of why I shouldn't have led a particular card. I glanced over at my mom, who has listened to my dad pontificate on the fine points of Bridge for 65 years. Her eyes were glazed over.
It was then I realized the similarity of learning Bridge and learning grammar: both are layered and complex. Very few rules are absolutes. Words (and bids) change their parts of speech (or meaning) based on how they're used in a sentence (or what has previously been bid).
Just when my students finally understand that "affect" is a verb and "effect" is a noun, I have to tell them that (sorry) this is not always the case.
Bridge feels like that!
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My dad was still excitedly explaining the reasoning behind my mother's and my erroneous moves.
"That may be so," I teased him, "but no one's listening to you!"
We all three laughed. And then we put the deck away for the night.
Enough.
Be well.
Write.
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