As I was leaving work last Friday, I got a
text message that my cousin Jim had passed away. We all knew it was coming–he
had stage IV lung cancer from a lifetime of smoking unfiltered cigarettes–but
that the end came as fast as it did was still a shock.
Facebook messaging got a real workout that
night as cousins far and wide remembered him fondly, especially for his jokes.
He had a joke for every situation and if he didn’t, he told one from his vast repertoire
anyway. Every one of his jokes began the same way, “That’s just like...” even
if it was nothing remotely like what you were just talking about.
But there was something else in those
messages that led me to an epiphany about my relatives.
Any occasion
for this family can involve a poker game. Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays,
Christenings, Communions, Confirmations, even weddings and wakes, it doesn’t
matter, somehow a poker game will break out as long as they find a flat surface
and a few empty chairs. It’s just a friendly game, nickel and dime mostly, with
plenty of good-natured conversation mixed in.
That’s the way it is now. When my Dad was
alive, poker, even penny-ante, was serious stuff. Before dessert was served,
he’d start getting antsy. If people weren’t eating fast enough he’d start
clearing the table himself. Those who weren’t playing cards were summarily
banished to other rooms to finish their pumpkin pie and coffee.
Before each hand he’d survey the table and
yell, “Who’s light?” That had nothing to do with the weight of the players
after the sumptuous meal they’d just enjoyed. It meant that the pot was a
nickel short and the dealing wouldn’t start until everyone had fed the kitty. When
his mind went bad and he had no clue who was at the table, he still knew
instantly if the pot was short.
Despite the old man’s autocratic rule, there
was always a demand for the seven seats available. They usually went to the
older generation first, then down to my older cousins, and eventually to me and
beyond. Many of us kids and now our grandchildren have been taught the finer
points of five-card stud and seven-card merry widow at the hands of their
elders while having their piggy banks and pockets quickly drained at the same
time.
So how does all this talk of playing with
the Devil’s pasteboards lead to an epiphany? In addition to Jim’s jokes,
mention was made of his legendary prowess at the poker table. That’s when it
hit me.
It’s often said that a person near death
hears the flapping of angels’ wings. Not so in my family. What they hear is the
shuffling of cards as room for one more is made at the celestial table. Jesus
compared heaven to an eternal banquet. To my ancestors it’s an on-going game of
no-peek baseball in a quiet corner of heaven’s basement.
Farewell, Jim, and don’t forget to feed that
kitty.
