Illustration by Alex Siklos
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Kyra and I heard about it the way that most millennials hear about things – an Instagram post.
“Euchre Wednesdays are back! Hosted at a local brewery in Old East, and always free to play. Sign up in teams of two,” it read.
I sent the post to my friend, who was keen. She’s one of the only people I know who can play euchre. We signed up under the team name, “We Don’t Know Jack.”
When we walked in that first Wednesday night, we didn’t know what to expect. Inside, we found a warm and welcoming space. The bar was in the middle, set across from a mural of Southern Ontario. A chalkboard on the wall shared upcoming events and a sign on the front door reminded you that everyone was welcome there. It was alive with the buzz of people, milling about and seated at the tables: talking, drinking and shuffling cards, all of this noise echoing slightly off the large brewing casks in the background.
We learned quickly that almost everyone else there had been coming for years – euchre nights were a pre-COVID institution but, like so much else, experienced a two-year pause during the pandemic. We weren’t just new faces but also probably the youngest two in the place. Euchre, it turns out, is a game mostly played by those 40 and up.
We lost our first three games in a row. At the halftime break, we debated sneaking out to avoid further humiliation, but stuck with it and rallied to win our next three games. By the end of the night, we realized we were having a really good time, regardless of whatever the scorecard said.
We went back again, and again. And as the months passed, the most wonderful thing happened: People started to recognize us, and we recognized them.
Euchre is a social game. It doesn’t require a lot of concentration and games move fast, allowing lots of time for chatting. The first weeks we were there, conversation stuck to the basics – what everyone did for work, what neighbourhood we lived in, how we learned to play euchre. We often asked about each other’s team names, which were wildly creative and spoke to the team’s personalities.
As the weeks went on, we started to get to know everyone a little. They remembered details like where we worked and how we knew each other. When I got into my master’s program at Western, I shared the news with tables as we played that night, and we toasted in celebration. Kyra and I kept up with euchre nights, even as we both switched jobs and navigated new schedules.
These simple connections stood in stark contrast to the loneliness I’d experienced during the pandemic.
Humans are not meant to be alone. It goes beyond having close ties with family members and close friends. You also need what psychologists and sociologists call “weak ties” – the sort of casual friends, or acquaintances, that you might see regularly, even if you don’t know much about them. It could be your bus driver, or a co-worker you encounter occasionally. These “weak ties” are actually important: interactions with these people can improve your mood, sense of belonging and sense of well-being.
These casual friends disappeared for me during the pandemic. I lived alone, worked remotely from a basement apartment and paired in a “bubble” with my aunt who lived nearby. The bulk of my interaction with other people was through Zoom. I remember lingering at the grocery store checkout because it felt nice to talk to someone, albeit briefly. I had a phase when I placed multiple Amazon orders each week because awaiting the arrival of my packages felt like a connection to the outside world.
As restrictions eased, it was hard to regain normalcy. Even when you could congregate in groups, it sometimes felt like meeting new people was putting your life or loved ones’ lives at risk.
My landlords (who lived above me) began inviting me to trivia nights on their porch, and later backyard barbecues. I started dating again, an activity which is definitely more fun in real life than virtually. I joined a recreational basketball league, also more fun in real life than virtually. I went out to a bar with my cousin and we made friends with new faces. Kyra and I started going to a brewery once a week to drink beer and play cards with strangers.
In 2023, after three years in London and nearly two years at euchre, a new job would take me out of the city, and our Wednesday night tradition came to an end. But I left with so many good memories. In my new town, I’m making sure to build up those small relationships again – from vendors at the farmer’s market, to yoga instructors, to baristas at my new favourite café.
And euchre nights are still there, whenever I’m back in town. Wednesday nights, London Brewing Co-op. Always free to play.
Caelan Beard lives in Brantford, Ont.