Old Dogs and Cribbage Players

When it came to cribbage, nobody could touch Uncle Hubie.

He was in his mid fifties, a rolypoly little man with a perpetual red face and a hearty laugh who lived alone in a tiny house behind his mother's and drove a badly beatup VW bug with muffler problems. The little car announced itself, he liked to tell people. He was a sometimes fisherman, part time ferryman, all purpose handyman, and in a pinch would drive the mail or run the projection booth on Saturday nights. But mostly, he was a gamesmaster. Checkers, chess, cards, monopoly, dominoes - but his heart belonged to the cribbage board. He carried a portable, fold-up game and a deck of cards in his back pocket, not wanting to miss any opportunity. He played for pebbles or matchsticks with children, pennies or cigarettes with adults - he was not, strictly speaking, any sort of gambler, although Nana often told me he'd be buried with his cribbage board so he could play with the Good Lord on Judgement Day. God plays cards? I asked and then took off, narrowly avoiding the inevitable swat from her broom.

Hubie was a fixture at the Saturday night dance. He came alone and favored all the girls with at least one spin around the dance floor, singing along to Johnny Horton and Kitty Wells and smelling of leather and Old Spice. He didn't drink but for the occasional beer and could always be trusted to see that we got home on time and in one piece. On some Saturday nights, the little VW crisscrossed the entire island, it's reassuring and roaring muffler announcing we were home safe and sound, if not always on time. No harm ever came to anyone in Hubie's care and despite the best efforts of many of the island matchmakers, he remained a lifelong bachelor, always a step ahead of the preacher. He loved the company of women but had no desire to share it on a permanent basis, preferring his freedom and independence, his games, and the easy availability of solitude. He did keep an old, nondescript and sleepy hound dog for company, a stray who had wandered up one day and taken a liking to sleeping in front of the little wood stove in the kitchen. For no particular reason, Hubie named him Banjo and they became a familiar sight - the dog was good natured and trusting, mellow to a fault, and more or less useless but he had been in need of food and shelter and Hubie had both and was more than willing to share. Besides, Hubie confided to Nana, I think he gets the games. Nana nodded agreeably and Banjo unexpectedly barked. See what I mean? Hubie grinned and scratched the old dog's ears with pride.

Hubie died halfway through a cribbage game with the schoolteacher, Banjo asleep at his feet. He was buried in the small church cemetery and a cribbage board and a deck of cards were carefully placed in his coffin. Some years later, Banjo went to sleep in front of the schoolteacher's classroom and never woke up. Jimmy and the children, after some serious pressure was brought to bear on the preacher, buried him alongside his master, in a solemn ceremony. Each child brought his or her dog to the graveside as tribute and Jimmy spoke of a heaven which united dogs and owners, where every day was warm and sunny, and where games were played under the watchful eyes of God.