The Canasta Grandmothers

I just sat down without a clue of what I am thinking: the Neutral Zone. My grandmother on my father’s side once asked me what I was thinking when I was seven or so. I responded something to the effect of “nothing.” She said that I am always thinking, so “nothing” is not a true answer. I probably added some wise ass remark like “peanut butter sandwich” to keep her quiet. But I’ve never forgotten her question. In fact, it is the only conversation, I remember having with her. She smoked three packs of Kent’s per day, so end of story.

But not really… I had two grandmothers, both alternated as baby sitters in my early years. They were quite different and I never saw them in the same room together. One was born in Poland and spoke with an accent, the other one who asked me the thinking question had a giant Doberman—where she was from didn’t matter, her dog was twice my size and nuts, in my opinion. I hated going over her house for fear the dog would drag me around the yard.

My grandmothers were cultural bookends. My Polish grams dragged me to church in the wee hours of the morning after bribing me with latkes.  The smoking grams parked me in front of the TV. But the grams had something in common other than me—canasta. I played thousands of games with them and when I think of them, as I am now, I see that stone-faced look while they hold their cards, waiting for me to discard on a pile rich with face cards. They played to win!