Dear Lyla,
Some of the most vivid memories from childhood feature the kitchen table after dinner during the cold winter months of Minnesota playing canasta with Bumpa, Grandma, and my sister. Back in the stone ages when I was young, we didn’t have cable or internet and the bunny ear antenna that we manipulated to get local television stations was constantly thwarted by the snow in the air, fuzzy lines, and an irritating buzz was all that would emanate from the boxy television in the corner of our living room. With limited entertainment choices and impassible roads because we lived in the country, we turned to reading or playing cards. Our home library and the four decks of cards used to play our nightly games were some of my most important teachers as a child. We started learning how to play when I was seven and Bumpa used it to teach us basic math skills. If you did not count correctly and melded when you didn’t have enough count, he would take 100 points off your score! Some of my earliest arithmetic lessons were learning to add up basic points and the points from the count. I was so little when I started playing, I could not shuffle the cards, I had to put them in front of me and swirl them around to mix them up. Grandma always had snacks for times in between hands and it is one of my fondest memories. I also learned at an early age that I do not like to lose and even the sweetest of personalities can be cutthroat when a game of canasta is at stake.
While you have grown up in a world of cable, internet and you live in a town where you are able to move around freely, not constrained by the chilly winter winds keeping your driveway closed for days on end, you have been given the gift of family card night. When grandma first suggested that she make dinner for us on Fridays followed by a rousing game of canasta I was delighted! You were reticent when we first started to play but it grew on you and now it is a rite of passage; Friday nights with the “Ladies.” I honestly thought as you went along in your teen years that you would be less interested in hanging out with me, your grandma, and your great aunt on Fridays. However, it seems that the opposite has happened. You look forward to those nights and we try to sneak a couple of hands in on weeknights when our busy schedules allow it.
You have clearly inherited the card shark gene, you HATE to lose, and I feel you, me too kid. Grandma and I joked that while you never knew your Bumpa he is ever present at those card games. Some of your expressions and your incredible luck at being dealt wildcards or drawing “just what you need” from the pile are so reminiscent of him. Sometimes even the lilt in your laugh is like hearing him in the room. Oh, and could he smack talk, well you inherited that too. Just a couple of weeks ago your great aunt suggested I replace your toothpaste with super glue. Publicly, I will say “please respect your elders,” privately your constant chatter throws them off and allows us to claim victory, so “well done!” We all become different characters when we play. You boss me around like you have been playing for decades longer than I have, Grandma’s little “tappity tap” on the cards is a dead give away she has a good hand, and when she is winning she makes jokes that only she thinks are funny and laughs so hard she cries. Debbie will lose her filter and say a few choice four letter words. Our walks back across the street to our house where we debrief the game are some of my favorite moments with you.
We are clearly blessed aren’t we, to have this time with each other and with Grandma and Aunt Debbie? To make those memories, to bring Bumpa back to life as the cheeky angel on your shoulder guiding you to card playing victory. And it’s all ours, our time to cherish, a secret language that others who are not privy to the Friday night experience cannot hope to understand. One facial expression or gesture at the card table communicates so much to the four of us as we wait in suspense to see if someone will grab the pile and deliver the final crushing blow to the other team. There is magic in the simplicity of sharing a meal with family, the fickleness of hands won and lost, the laughter so deep it brings tears and the feeling of love in the room and the knowledge that we have roots. Deep, messy, boisterous and strong roots that will live long after old branches wither and new limbs sprout.
Letters To Lyla 