GROFF MEDIA 2024© TRUTH ENDURES IMDBPRO
Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©s
It was cold and snowing the day my dad decided to teach my sister and me how to play poker. We set up a card table in the living room. He brought out his cherished poker chips and cardholder. He placed them carefully in the center.
The chips were red, white, and blue. Dad told us not to worry about their dollar value. White was the least expensive. Red was worth more. Blue held the highest value, at least for this game. Then, with a practiced hand, he shuffled the deck and dealt the cards, and our lesson began.
I can’t recall exactly which variation of poker we played. It was Seven Card Stud, Texas Hold’Em, or Five Card Draw. But I remember the three of us sitting around that table. Each had a tall glass of iced tea. The snow piled up outside. With every inch of snowfall, I grew more hopeful that school would get canceled the next day. In my mind, I was already winning.
I caught on quickly, learning to hold onto high-value cards and giving myself a decent advantage. But the real edge came from my dad. He wasn’t just teaching us poker. He was teaching us something more. This lesson would stay with me long after the cards were put away.
A fire crackled in the fireplace, filling the room with warmth, and for a moment, life felt perfect. That house, that evening, that love—it’s a place I often dream of returning to. Yet, it no longer exists beyond memory. And in that memory, my dad shared something else with us. It was a poem—a warm blanket of words that wrapped us in comfort.
It was nonsensical and crude, but it belonged to him, and now it belonged to me. Decades later, I still carry it with me:
DAD’S POEM
I Woke Up Just This Morning
And I Looked Upon The Wall
The Roaches And The Bedbugs
Were Playing A Game Of Ball
The Score Was Six To Nothing
The Roaches Were Ahead
I Got So Doggone Excited
I Jumped Right Out Of Bed
I Ran Downstairs to Breakfast
But The Coffee Was So Stale
It Tastes Just Like Tobacco Juice
Right Out Of The County Jail.
Dad said he wasn’t sure where he’d first heard it—maybe in school as a boy. He had just always known it. And now, it was mine to carry on.
That silly little poem has come in handy more times than I can count. It has bailed me out when I’ve been put on the spot and asked to speak publicly. When I needed to write something quickly for school, it found its way onto my paper. It has brought laughter to gatherings and lightened tense moments. Somehow, it has traveled with me through time. It serves as a testament to the enduring power of shared memories. It is just like the memory of that snowy afternoon.
I never became a poker player, but I went on to work with words, write, and tell stories. I believe it started with that poem.
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