Seniors play serious game of dominoes at center
Four tables of 42 dominoes were under way last week at the senior citizens center in Atlanta, Texas.
But that wasn’t the big story. Everyone was talking about Gerald Dee Manley, who was smiling and playing dominoes at 94. It wasn’t that he wins, but that he’s a winner. He’d just gotten back from an emergency gall-bladder operation.
“He’s amazing,” said domino player Carol Brockett. “He had surgery on Monday and was back here on Friday. All he would tell us was that it had hurt ‘a little bit.’”
Carol should know. She was related to Gerald Manley for 51 years until the death of his wife, Marjell Ammons Manley.
“Gerald lives alone, does his own house work and yard work and goes fishing nearly five days a week,” she continued.
“His neighbors will hear him getting up and leaving at 5 a.m. and say, ‘There goes Mr. Manley … going to work.’”
All guests at the senior citizens center have stories. Some to tell, others not.
The seniors gather five days a week at the center for the noontime lunch and other activities like music each Wednesday noon, playing dominoes and exchanging general information.
Be aware, the atmosphere at a senior citizens center is different. Be prepared for sassy questions and answers, frank opinions and not much concern whether someone likes you much or not. No one’s running for office here.
The best thing to so is roll with the punches. Join in and sass right back. Everyone will be happier then.
But one more piece of advice: Don’t underestimate senior citizens.
Here’s a story from this reporter’s own experience.
As you may know, 42 domino is a game of quiet concentration and continuous involvement. Every play by every player affects you.
Four’s the limit and two will be partners, hoping to read each other’s mind.
The key is to note every domino played and what it reveals about the other dominoes that player has remaining in his hand.
Somehow, some long-time players really can “know” what others have.
Once this reporter played with some senior weekly players at the Marietta Volunteer Fire Department and found he could never win a “trick” (that is, one round of play).
I got up after losing several games, smiled and moved to another table.
“I can’t even win a trick over there,” I said, sitting down to my new table players.
“That’s the very definition of cheating,” said one of my new buddies, loud enough for everyone to hear.
I didn’t do a bit better at table two.
So here’s that last piece of advice: Be careful if you see players wearing Marietta VFD hats or T-shirts. Or better still, partner up with them.