Spring Mountain Spring Moon
Into Denver to the Village Inn last night to play sheepshead. We had 10 people, so two tables of five which is ideal. Not sure whether I’m more timid in a new group, got bad cards or am just playing poorly, but I got clobbered last night. Disappointed. Let it get to me on the way home. Disappointed in that, too.
Putting it out there like that helps me see the evening more clearly. I go for fun and come back unhappy? Hmmm. Something’s not right there. With my attitude. I do miss my old sheepshead gang, the three ex-Jesuits: Bill, Ed and Dick and the Dorothy Day Catholic, Roy. We had a solid, human bond.
The Village Inn is in Denver, just past I-25 on Colorado Boulevard. It collects loners. A goth girl with a bumper-stickered laptop, a Chinese man and his autistic brother, “I would like 4 crackers. Could I have 4 crackers, please? I need 4 crackers.” A guy with a bad comb over, denim ranch jacket, looking at his philly steak sandwich with careful intent.
It also hosts, on Friday evenings, two different groups of card players, ours and a pinochle, canasta crowd that always has the table set in a small alcove. We end up with a round table, plus a couple of other tables. The atmosphere is one of faint urban desperation decorated with bright colors and cheery waitresses.
The sheepshead crowd is Polish Catholic Church for Wisconsinites and their friends. We come together, talk about the Packers, use German language terms like schneider and maurer, and play this odd game. Could be Milwaukee or Wittenberg or Sturgeon Bay. For two or three hours. Then it’s back to Colorado and Shadow Mountain.