Never Play Poker With a Nun

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I come from a long line of storytellers. On my mom’s side there was the lovable curmudgeon, Grandpa Arnold. You’d mention a current event and he’d not only have an opinion, he’d also produce an historical reference to affirm that opinion.

Across the kitchen table sat the ever-passionate Grandma Lucy. Her renditions of chapters from “Bible Stories for Children” were nothing short of spell-binding. Her take on the David-and-Goliath slingshot scene was epic. You’d laugh, you’d cry, you’d remember. She was oral interpretation of literature at its best!

And let’s not forget my great-uncle Bill. Uncle Bill raised giant Belgian draft horses, told classic tall tales straight out the Old West, and had all of his nieces and nephews utterly convinced there were alligators in his stock pond.

Then, on my dad’s side of the family, we had the one and only Grandpa Bud. Frank A. (Bud) Tienan was a storyteller extraordinaire. He had a story or piece of advice for any incident, predicament or occasion.

Where’d he get his material? Life. And what a life it was.

From the time we were puppies, Grandpa Bud told us stories about when he was a short-order cook, and when he was a cattle rancher, and when he was a prize fighter, and when he was a semi-pro baseball player. He did it all, and it was all true.

Bud Tienan lived a colorful life. The stories that life produced were masterpieces of insight and wit that illuminated the human qualities he cherished most, like duty, honor, hope, love, grit and above all, humor.

Grandpa Bud had two passions in life: fishing and telling stories. He did both like they were his job.

We started going to Minnesota and fishing with Grandpa Bud when I was in fourth grade. It became our summer tradition. Every day was the same. You could set your clock by it. My brother, Mike, and I gave each part of the day a nickname.

The “early bird show” began when Grandpa and Dad left before sunrise to go walleye and northern fishing. When they came back, we’d make breakfast.

Immediately following breakfast was the “big show.” We’d load up the rented, no-frills Lund fishing boat and head across Diamond Lake to our secret crappie spot.

Once the crappies stopped biting, we’d re-rig and troll for walleyes. By about 11 a.m. we’d make our way to the lily pads to try our luck with the sunfish.

At noon we’d head in for lunch. Grandpa was a phenomenal cook so that was something to look forward to.

Following lunch was the “afternoon show.” Grandpa would head out again. He knew full well the fish would usually stop biting during the heat of the day, but he was a fisherman on a mission. His addiction rubbed off on me, so I always went along. Dad and Mike were smarter than us and sat out the afternoon show on shore in the shade.

Lest we forget

It was during one of those insanely hot and uncomfortable afternoons in 1976 that Grandpa Bud shared with me some of the best advice I’ve ever received.

It was 3 p.m. We were anchored about 10 yards off the lily pads on Diamond Lake. There was no breeze. It was so hot I swear I could smell my hair starting to burn under my ever-present baseball cap. 

My bobber sat on the still water waiting for a sunfish to come by and take the big, juicy night crawler suspended on a hook precisely two feet below my split-shot weight, which in turn was precisely one-and-a-half feet below my red and white bobber. Grandpa was a stickler for exactitude.

As I straddled the hard wooden bench seat and watched a dragonfly attempt to land on my bobber, I heard Grandpa quietly rummaging through his tackle box. When the fishing was slow, his habit was to methodically review the contents of his ancient tackle box. He’d quietly hum to himself as he’d pick up each lure, inspect it and gently replace it. He’d chuckle quietly when a certain lure reminded him of some past fishing adventure or mishap. It was a way to pass the time and commune with old memories.

It was at times like that when he’d decide to share with me a pearl of his wisdom. I could almost feel it coming, like a storm brewing on the horizon.

The humming from the stern suddenly stopped and I heard, “Jimmy, there’s two things you need to remember if you want to be successful in life: Three of a kind beats two pair; and never, under any circumstances, play poker with a nun.”

With that he returned to rummaging in his tackle box and humming his sonata.

I stared at him as my 12-year-old brain struggled to process his sage advice. Unsure, I simply replied, “Thanks, Grandpa,” and returned to monitoring my bobber.

True to form, Grandpa Bud had simply led the horse to water. It was up to the horse – me – to drink. In this case, that meant figuring out what the heck he meant.

It took me more than a decade, but I did it.

No. 1. Three of a kind beats two pair

It’s the simplest rule in poker. But the reality is that during the heat of the game when the pot is building and the chips are flying it’s really easy to fall in love with those kings and eights and forget that three lowly twos could win it all. Grandpa Bud’s message? If you’re going to play the game, know the rules.

No. 2. Never play poker with a nun

Grandpa was a German-Lutheran who married into a big Irish-Catholic family. Grandma Bertha had two brothers and a son who were priests, and a niece and grandniece who were nuns.

Card playing was part of every family get-together and the go-to activity during bad weather on fishing trips. It was on one such soggy trip to northern Minnesota with Grandma and her nun nieces that he learned the realities of the women in the habits. 

The nuns in our family played a lot of cards. They were great with numbers and by profession, they knew how to keep a straight face. That meant that within mere minutes of learning a new game they’d have it mastered. If they decided to focus their skills on poker, they’d have all your money and just smile and say, “Thank you for your kind donation to the Widows and Orphans Fund.”

The lesson? Don’t be deceived by outward appearances. Ever. It could cost you dearly.

These are lessons that have proven over and over to be invaluable to me. I’ve often shared them with my kids. And I look forward to the day when I can share them with my grandkids, just like Grandpa Bud did.

I’ll look up over my tackle box, stare that youngster in the eye and say, “You know, there’s two things you need to remember if you want to be successful in life…”

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Frank A. (Bud) Tienan

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