Stories

Poker

Nights in our small family home in Wahouma were usually spent around the little black and white Zenith TV set. Occasionally, we'd all sit around on the floor and play poker.

Dad knew all the probabilities and could remember what had been played. He had become a good player while in the Army. He tried to teach these skills to his sons, but I, for one, didn't get it. I was young. Mom was a card-shuffling magician. As a young girl, she had practiced until she looked like a card shark.

I did understand hand rankings and difficulties and, more often than not, won the pot. I was lucky.

We placed bets with matchsticks. Mom and Dad always kept a large box of matches around for lighting the stove and the gas furnace. They became our poker chips. Each player started with the same amount. Don was too young for this game but always sat with Mom, who included him in her decisions. You could tell when the game was almost over when Dad went all-in. Whoever won that hand was the night's winner. He usually waited till he had nothing, and, if Mom had a good hand, she'd fold.

One night, as I remember it as our last night playing with matchsticks, I had taken the pile. Gloating, I picked them all up and held them out for everyone to see. 

Before putting them down, I decided to scratch one of the little white dots off of one in the center of the bundle. Again, I was young. I didn't know anything about matches.. When they caught fire, I didn't just drop them but tossed them in the air, sending everyone scrambling and scorching the living room rug in a number of places. 

Dad bought poker chips soon after, but poor Mom had to live with the pockmarked rug until we moved to Huffman.