Pauline Nevins

Want to play hand and foot? I greeted this invitation with the suspicion it deserved. I had no idea what was being offered. I would learn that hand and foot is a card game, a legitimate one, sanctioned by our Auburn Newcomers and Neighbors social club.

I hadn’t played cards in years. When I was a teenager, my brother-in-law, Pete, who lived across the street, would dash across the road on a Friday night anxious to pry away some of my wages before I had a chance to go out and blow in one night what took me all week to earn. We usually played pontoon, otherwise known as blackjack. The stakes were low, so even if I wasn’t lucky, I still had a few shillings left to spend at the local Black Domino Café, our local hangout until we were old enough to booze it up at the Dog and Duck pub.

Hazel, our Newcomers’ hiking leader, had asked the hand and foot question. She offered to teach me the game. I wouldn’t say I’ve gained enough confidence to try out for the Texas Hold’em Championship, but I managed to grasp the essentials of the game — just don’t ask me to do mental arithmetic.

Not wanting to commit to a regular schedule, I volunteered to be a substitute. The game is played with two couples at each of three tables. If there are absentees, others don’t get to play.

I advised Hazel to only call if she was desperate. The annual Christmas game night was approaching. The group was desperate. They called me. I reluctantly agreed although I was usually in bed, under my electric blanket, reading when they are still playing.

After I said "yes,” I received a second call from Hazel. Bye the way, we do a gift exchange — spend approximately $20. OK then. The good news? The dinner was a potluck and I wasn’t expected to bring anything.

As I roamed around Hazel’s kitchen admiring and sampling the food, a vivacious member of the group arrived swaddled in a mink coat looking every bit the movie star. I half expected to see a stretch limo idling at the curb.

“I can only wear this at private events,” she confided, “where I know I'm not going to be attacked.”

Several ladies nodded in empathy, even the animal lovers.

“I bought it for $80 at a garage sale, years ago, in New Jersey.”

This explained a lot. She laid the coat in the studio next to the kitchen. She let me try it on.

As I stroked the fur, Mrs. Carrington popped into my head. She was an elderly lady who lived across from my mother. She and her best friend, Mrs. Hudson, would walk by our house, arm in arm. They'd be all dolled up in high heels, stockings, wool coat, hat, gloves and a handbag dangling on their arm just like the Queen.

They were on their way to catch the green double-decker bus to town where they’d wander in and out of all those quaint shops on Market Street. These were the days before the first supermarket arrived and changed the town forever. I thought the ladies looked very elegant, with one exception. I could never look directly at the pointy noses and tiny paws that dangled at the end of the fox fur they wrapped around their necks.

The hand and foot group ate, drank, played cards and then it was time for the gift exchange — the one that involves picking a number, choosing an unmarked gift, and "stealing" someone else’s gift that you fancy. I had played this game at an office party when I was working. I’d opened a gift that was a beautiful wooden jewelry box, handmade by one of our coworkers. I grinned from ear to ear. But not for long. Another coworker "stole" it from me. I know this sounds petty, and it is, but I never looked at that coworker the same way again. I hadn’t "stolen" the jewelry box, I’d come by it honestly.

I wondered if it was this memory that pinned me to my chair at Hazel’s house. I couldn’t "steal" anyone else’s gift. Others had no such compunction. A soft throw blanket gift was gleefully snatched by several and stroked as lovingly as I stroked the mink coat.

There is more to the jewelry box tale. The maker of the box, remembering how disappointed I’d been to have the jewelry box pried from my grasp, would, years later, make another for me after I retired. This one, even more ornate than the other.