Lessons For Life In A Card Game
Count the books so you don't get blindsided; Never let ‘em see you sweat. And the most important rule: It ain’t the hand or the game that matters most, it’s the player. They are lessons I never forgot
By John W. Fountain
ON WARM SUMMER NIGHTS, when the sound of blues music and card slapping filled our West Side apartment until nearly dawn, the game of bid whist was religion. Even if the “saints” at church thought playing cards was the devil’s business, it didn’t matter much to Mama who loved “bid” with divine passion.
For Mama, a deck of cards could be salvation.
No matter how tight money was, no matter what new troubles, a fresh deck of playing cards, a few good friends and something cold to drink—usually Schlitz beer—plus the serenade of blues from cassettes or LPs, had a way of washing those troubles all away like a fresh hard rain. That much was clear to me, even as a kid.
As “Ode to Billie Joe” played for the umpteenth time, Mama and my stepfather smacked cards on a folding table with their good friends, Miss Edna and Mr. Charlie.
If I close my eyes, I can still hear their midnight laughter, the joy of friendship and good times amid hardship and uncertainty, although back then bid whist did not mean to me what it meant to the adults.
A simple book-turning card game akin to bridge, bid whist is beloved by many black folks, and its best practitioners revered like a heavyweight boxing champ.
Mama was masterful. She had honed the card-playing lingo and she possessed the bravado requisite for being bid whist top gun. Mama was born to play bid. She was “bad”—in a good way.
By an early age, she taught each of her four children to play. But playing cards with Mama was not for the faint at heart. Sometimes I would be half afraid to put a card into play, knowing that if I wasn’t playing up to Mama’s standards, I could get a good quick cussing out.
Mama was methodical. She counted books and knew exactly which cards had been played and which had not. She could even detect what cards her partner was holding by the cards he or she put into play.
Trash Talk
MAMA DIDN’T CHEAT, ALTHOUGH she taught my siblings and me how to detect if others were cheating and how to decode their signals.
Her weekend card games buzzed with trash-talk, with the snap, pop and hiss of another can of beer being opened, with the sound of hurried feet moving toward the bathroom whenever the beer had run its course, and with the occasional shout of “Boston!”
That meant one team had turned all 13 books in a single hand.
Sometimes my stepfather shouted, “Too late for the camel ‘cause the pig’s got his eyes closed!”
I never knew what that meant. Except he only said this whenever he was on the verge of winning.
What I remember most about those nights isn’t who won or loss, or for how long they played. What I remember is the carefree girlie nature that rang in Mama’s voice, as all of her worries got lost in the endless shuffling of the deck.
‘Like A Summer Rain’
MAMA WAS ONE HELLUVA bid whist player. And she required that her children learn the game. My brother and I are her proud understudies. We played bid whist seriously while also relishing the game, but remembering the most important rules Mama taught us:
Play your hand; Count the books so you don't get blindsided; Never let ‘em see you sweat. And the most important rule: It ain’t the hand or the game that matters most, it’s the player. They are lessons I never forgot.
As an adult, I too have sometimes turned to a deck of cards, trading in my worries for the slapping of cards and trash-talk.
I have done so understanding now, as a full-grown man: That having money is good and necessary for living but not requisite for happiness. That life is about the collection of moments, of memories, of family and a few good friends.
That finding pleasure in even the simplest of things can make life sweet rather than bitter. And that a good hand of bid whist can still soothe like a summer rain.
Remember The Time
TIME STOOD STILL. Earth, Wind & Fire’s “Reasons” hung on a summer breeze as we bellowed the words from our souls and dreamed of life, love and making sweet memories. Having emerged from Jim Crow—still fresh from the Great Migration and still reeling from Dr. King’s assassination, but standing in the dawning light of new possibilities, even amid our pain and poverty—we sang.
And we danced. And romanced. Black love. Black family. Back in a time before insanity and so much profanity. So 70s...
Back then, the libretto of the days of our lives was sung in Philip Bailey’s falsetto, which rose higher and sweeter than a morning bird, fluttering above a rippling blue lake against a golden sunrise. The music made us live, love, laugh, cry.
Even when times were bad, songs seasoned our days and nights, like Grandmother’s cornbread and collard greens. They composed the soundtrack of our times, chronicled life and death, struggle and breath, and the yearning souls of Black folk. Nothing compared to the songs that Earth, Wind & Fire and the Isley Brothers wrote.
And time stood still.
‘We Sang’
I CAN STILL SEE my uncle’s candy apple red Delta 88. See us dance and skate. Smell my Aunt Scopie’s garlic fried chicken. See adults and children alike shimmy and shake.
Back then, songs spoke to our spirits in smooth and funk-filled grooves and harmonies, in honey-laden melodies with timeless lyrics that worked like good medicine to soothe our sometimes-wearied souls as they spilled from AM radios.
Songs made us whole. They flowed through West and South Side blocks, like rivers of milk and honey, amid the cool white spray of fire hydrants on blazing summer days. Made us feel rich, even when we had no money.
For the sun shone as brightly on the Cold Coast as it did on the Gold Coast. And the scent of barbecue at a block club party in the hood—white smoke billowing from grills saturated with ribs and tips and hotdogs, burgers and corn on the cob--made ghetto life all good.
And time stood still…
We sang: “Hearts of fire creates loves desire, Take you high and higher to the world you belong…”
We sang: “Through devotion, Blessed are the children, Praise the teacher, That brings true love to many...”
And time stood still…
Moon-lit Nights Without Fear
NO DRIVE-BYS. NO CRACK. No carjacking. No COVID-19.
And yet, they were no-less imperfect times filled with red tape and white lies. But the music helped us just get by.
We sang: “Drifting on a memory, Ain’t no place I’d rather be, Than with you, loving you…” The Isley Brothers’ silky soulful sounds melted away our troubles--wet our palates like the White Port and Kool-Aid mix the alley winos called shake-n-bake. And Ernie Isley’s guitar serenades transported our hearts and imaginations all the way to heaven.
We sang, "I keep hearin’ footsteps, baby, In the dark, in the dark…”
We sang, “Smiles in the makin’, You gotta fight the powers that be…”
We sang, “Sometimes you can’t be with the one you love, honey, love the one you’re with.”
At their best, they were among the songs that uplifted us. That time stamped upon our hearts and souls. Memories of first loves, first times, and seasons now passed. Of family no longer here. Of bid whist and ice-cold beer, of moonlit nights without trepidation or fear. Songs that filled our ghetto atmosphere with serenity and serendipity that chased away our troubled days like Earth, Wind & Fire’s “September.”
I still remember. And time stood still.
Email: Author@johnwfountain.com
I love your stories John. I grew up on 80th and Maryland. Lots of Italians and Irish then in the 40’s, 50’s , and early 60’s. We hung out at a drugstore with soft drinks, and Grand Crossing Park. Got chased and picked up by the police. Usually they would drive us around till we cried because we knew we’d get killed by our parents. Poor but I guess we had what we needed. But your stories let me know how you lived and your stories are so colorful and sad. Thank you for sharing 🙏