The Mahj Game
It’s a special kind of sound…sharp, crisp, like the click of your tongue on the roof of your mouth. There is a rhythm and soothing snappiness as the tiles are mixed, arranged into “walls” and exchanged. It’s the sound I grew up with when my mother and her “girlfriends” played MahJongg in our Indiana living room.
Upstairs, tucked in my bed, I would be lulled to sleep by the syncopated click-click of the tiles on the card table below. It was a sound that meant you were a grown up and knew how to play this strange Chinese game that involved ivory tiles, beautifully inscribed with exotic symbols named Bams, Craks, Dots and Winds. The “girls” manicured hands — diamond rings flashing, bracelets jangling — flew across the tabled as they picked and discarded tiles from their carefully constructed hands.
Will I ever be old enough to play this game, I wondered as a child. And, yes, soon after college and moving to Los Angeles, I did learn to play Mahj and became part of a weekly game. On a visit to my family in the Midwest I was thrilled to be invited to fill in with my Mom’s game at our family home. I hoped I was good enough. After all, the “girls” had been playing for years and years.
The card table was set up, the ubiquitous cashews were arranged in crystal dishes, and homemade pastries and coffee were set out on the lace-covered dining room table. We pulled up our chairs, set up our hands, and then Roz said, “Did you hear about Merla? Well,” said Roz, “she fell and broke her hip and is in a nursing home.” There followed a lengthy discussion about who would visit Merla, how they could help when she came home and who would arrange for meals.
At last, we began to pick and discard tiles. It was finally my turn, and just as I was discarding my first tile, Mae said, “I wanted to invite you to the yard party Lenny and I are planning on July 4th. Please put it on your calendars.” “Oh,” said Vi, “I will bring my famous noodle kugel. Or would you prefer a Jello mold?” And, so it went, another twenty minute discussion about would bring what to the yard party. Then it was time for cake and coffee and a 20 minute break.
The same thing happened at the start of the third game. Estelle burst into tears and shared that Jules, her husband, had been transferred, and they would be moving halfway across the country, far from her Mahj sisters. A group hug ensued, followed by promises to visit Estelle. That pretty much did it for the rest of the evening.
“Wow,” said Roz. “It is nearly 11. Lester will begin to worry about me.” “Me, too,” said Mae. “Lenny and I are driving to Chicago tomorrow very early.” They gathered their Mahj cards, their small bags of quarters and their coats, followed by a 15-minute confab at the door about who would hostess the game the following week.
At last they left, and I helped my Mother carefully place the Mahj set in its felt-lined box. “So, did you have fun?” queried my Mom. I tried to be diplomatic, but I was very frustrated. “Really, Mom. This is hardly a Mahj game. It is a schmooze session.”
She looked at me and quietly explained, “Yes, it may appear that way. However, we have been playing every week for 30 years, and during that time we have raised our children, felt joy at the weddings of those children, shared pictures of our grandchildren, supported each other through health issues, cried when one of us lost a parent or sibling and have created an unbreakable bond.
Mahj is just an excuse to be together, support each other and have some laughs. If you are lucky, young lady, you will find the same kind of Mahj game with friends who will pick you up when you fall and share in your good and bad times.”
…and, I have. Mama you were always right.
