One of the most selfless women I've ever known, my grandmother did not take kindly to losing a game of 500 Rummy.
It was SERIOUS business when those worn playing cards came out of the box. The
play was quick-moving and pitiless despite the carefully laden supplies my
Grammy would assemble to lull us into a complacent mood of goodwill. Stale salt-free
pretzels and ginger-ale; the sustenance upon which we habitually snacked as Grammy
and Poppop clobbered us with four Aces and more matching royals than they can
boast in the United Kingdom.
I was a mere seventeen and dating
my husband when these rambunctious card competitions took place. Jim adored my grandmother as well. He had been baptized by fire into my crazy
family by that time, my grandmother going as far as to “bake” his work boots in
her oven. It was a rainy day and she was
concerned for his welfare. She had on
previous occasions forced this 19 year old to don gallon sized plastic bags
inside his shoes to keep his poor “stockinged feet” dry. At this particular rainy juncture, she had
decided his boots were too wet for the usual plastic bag treatment and she actually
placed them on a cookie sheet in her oven to bake. The look on his face when he tried to locate
his shoes was one I will never forget.
Suffice it to say, my Grammy loved her grandchildren (and their boyfriends!) with a
ridiculous love. She fed us, hugged us, and spouted cheesy poetry pinched from
Helen Steiner Rice. When she looked at us she made us feel like we were the
only thing in the world worth seeing. Some of my best memories of Grammy and
her life lessons were born at her 1950s-style chrome and Formica red kitchen
table. Her recipes were awesome, but what happened at her table during an
evening of cards will forever spark my heart’s memory, sending my face an
irrepressible smile. Her twisted arthritic fingers did nothing to diminish the
speed with which she pounced to snatch up an ill-placed playing card one of us
was foolish enough to discard prematurely. Seeing our error while we were still
oblivious to the blunder, she’d spring to action, hollering “RUMMY!” while rearranging
the burgeoning card piles with which she would bury us when the scores were totaled.
My grandfather was her card-playing
partner. It was us against them and it was one of the few times
they appeared to be “on the same side.” They had one of those crazy symbiotic relationships
marked by adoring each other from afar yet scolding one another in PA Dutch
(the family tongue) at the drop of a hat. We had little concept what words they
were shouting, but the tone came through loudly and clearly. I come from a long
line of stubborn people and those tenacious Pennsylvania Dutch genetics were
patently evident in both of my mother’s parents.
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So there was occasional shouting
and a ruthless pursuit of victory, but here’s the great thing… The countless hours I sat at that red table
were among the best I've ever spent. Grammy may have been beating us
mercilessly at the game of cards, but she was showing us how to live and how to
love. It was a safe and wonderful place
to learn how to lose. Life isn't always sweet and sometimes no matter how
marvelous a hand you are dealt, things don’t turn out quite the way you’d
hoped. But knowing you are deeply loved and surrounded by people you adore,
even a stale pretzel tastes pretty awesome. Let’s play.
(Photo taken in the early 80s when Pop, Gram, Jim and I ventured to Williamsburg, VA for a fun-filled long weekend.)
