A Word or Three In Memoriam of My Grandmother

(Author’s note: my last surviving grandparent passed away recently. I had written this to read at the funeral, but given the decorum and feeling the vibe in the room, I chickened out. So while the mourners were spared hearing this, I like to think that my grandmother would have found it amusing. My brother certainly did. That being said, what I wrote was written in love. My grandmother made it to 95 years old and while her passing did not come as a shock, it has been a shock how many memories came flooding back once I heard the news of her death. Please enjoy and thank you for reading.)

I never learned how to play canasta.  Card games don’t generally thrill me overall.  My dad was the driving force in having the family play sheepshead, a game that usually ended up with my brother in tears due to dad’s ability to count cards as they were played and knowing my brother’s strategy up through the last hand.  Meanwhile I was a literal wild card, not really knowing what I was doing, being wholly unreliable as a partner due to my fantastic ability to not read plays.

And this isn’t necessarily why I never learned how to play canasta.  The reason was my fear of either playing against or worse, playing with my grandmother.  You see, she certainly took the game quite seriously.  When I was growing up, my grandmother, a person who showed nothing but love to my brother and me, would definitely change during playing canasta with her own children.  Now I grew up thinking that my father was the be-all, end-all when it came to colorful language choices. To be sure he was cursing poet when given the opportunity to show off his skills. However my grandmother would always surprise me whenever I heard the words coming out of her mouth over the summer nights spent in the cabin in Wautoma.  Dock workers would blush and sailors would cover their ears if they ever played in those games. 

Rather than incur that kind of reaction, I would always decline playing the game.  I didn’t want to even learn how to play canasta.  It was easier.  I would just hang out in my grandparents’ bedroom, reading the stack of comics that I got that weekend.  Of course, I could stay in the living room, but my grandfather and my dad would be there already, also not playing canasta.  (I would notice that there’s wisdom to be gleaned by my elders here.  My grandfather and my dad weren’t fools; why encourage a fight or a remark with a play that would tick off my grandmother? After all, my grandfather would have to live with the person he incredibly irked.)  So I played stupid, not too hard in my case, and immediately forgot canasta despite being retrained in the game numerous times.  This way I would always be a liability at the kitchen table when the cards were dealt.  I would also avoid being called an asshole by my own grandmother.  As we learned in 1983’s WarGames, sometimes the only winning move is not to play. 

My brother on the other hand, thrilled at these kinds of games with our grandmother.  He never shied away from poking the bear and so he would jump in far more readily that I ever did.  The adrenaline rush of possible disownment whilst hearing that you were a son of a bitch was just too much for him to resist, I suppose.

Why do I tell this story?  To the unknowing ear, it might sound like I’m expressing sour grapes, taking a dig at my grandmother when she can’t retort or reply or respond.  Well, I bring this up to illustrate her passion and focus.  She was one of the strongest people I ever knew.  If she was going to break that brick wall, then get the hell out of her way and give her a sledge and a helmet.  When she put her mind to something, only the good Lord Himself could stop her and even then, she would think it came to a draw.  She was a foundation, a rock.  Sometimes stubborn to a fault, but this wasn’t due to a lack of passion.

She loved her family, even when illogically calling her own sons sons of bitches in a canasta game.  (Or calling my brother one, which would mean a certain definition of her daughter that I’m sure wasn’t intended when my grandmother displayed the sudden angry reaction due to a melding issue or not knowing when to fold ‘em or hold ‘em or whatever it is you do in canasta.)  She always made sure that her family was fed, that the laundry was done, the floor was vacuumed, the lawn was mowed, the dishes were done, the car was washed just her way, the snow was shoveled. 

She came to dozens of our Christmas Eve church services when we were kids, seeing our plays and listening to our concerts.  Growing up, we couldn’t wait to get to Brown Deer to celebrate Christmas at the house, seeing the volume of cookies that she baked.  To that end, she readily enjoyed her great-grandchildren and indulged them as well.  The world might have seen a tough as nails lady, but we also got to see the heart, the passion, the love. 

When her daughter, my Mom, died nearly 25 years ago now, my grandparents became even more involved in our lives.  Come what may, through deaths and hardships and loss and weddings and births and joy, my grandmother was a great part of the lives that my brother and I have lived.  And we wanted it that way.  My kids never knew their grandmother, but they certainly knew my grandmother and that was a tremendous blessing to all.

Through it all, we were blessed for having my grandmother in our lives.  If someone needed to move, she would be the first in with a box.  If someone needed a hot meal, she set out another plate.  If you have a birthday, here’s a card and more cupcakes that you ever thought were possible.  Her duck soup was a delight that I will live on in my memories for the rest of my days.  And through it all, there was love, there was passion, there was focus, there was strength.

If I walk away with just a fraction of the strength and toughness and love she showed in her life, I can face anything.  In fact, I think the time has come: I’m confident in finally learning canasta.  And that’s the greatest honor I can give in honor of her memory at this moment: she would be so very proud that she would never have to endure me making an awful play as her partner.