Don Greenwood
My Family Loved Canasta - I Think I Know Why
Although I'm sixty two years old, and my father's mother has been
dead for almost forty years, I still recall how much she, Ada Greenwood,
loved to play the card game, "Canasta." My younger brother and I, our
parents, and my grandma would play for hours in her simple little
apartment in Southern California. This started when I was about eight years old, and
continued into my early teen years. It was fascinating, and very
competitive.
Once a month the same five of us would pack our car and drive
three hours to the high Mojave Desert, north of Palm Springs, California. It
was a hot drive, as most cars in those days had no air conditioning. Why
didn't my grandmother live full time with Grandpa? I really don't know, except
she said she couldn't take the heat. Looking back, I think there were several
reasons, one being they didn't get along.
Well, it wasn't long after we arrived at the old motel, that
Grandma would set up the big table and cards, and we all would sit down for a
marathon match of Canasta. Don't ask me now how you play that game, I've
forgotten. I bet if I started playing again, it would soon come back. I
just recall placing cards on the table in a long sequence, and adding up
the scores.I recall loving to win and hating to lose.
Grandpa was not well, and had not been for much of his life. He
had only one lung working and a bad case of asthma. In the late 1940's and
early 1950's, when we made these desert trips, there were no medicated inhalers.
Instead, he would place some strong smelling stuff in the top of a coffee
can and burn it while sitting above and inhaling. At night he had to
sleep in a chair, because he couldn't breathe lying down. He tried coming to
visit us near the California Coast, but after two hours couldn't take it.
One day in the desert, we were in the middle of an intensive card
game, when I thought Grandpa was chuckling or quietly laughing. Then we
all realized he was instead crying! I can still feel the blood draining from
myself, as I looked wide-eyed at the 75 year old man I thought never
cried! There was an uncomfortable silence, and no one said anything. In fact, if
I remember correctly, nothing was said. Later, I asked my mother what had
happened. She said Grandpa had had some small strokes, and now his
emotions were out of control. (My parents taught that feelings were not to be
displayed, but kept to one's self. How one felt was strictly a private
matter)
It seems I now recall Grandpa had been having trouble remembering how to play the card game. Also, I had noticed he left food on one side of his plate uneaten. I asked about that, and was told it was because the strokes had impaired his vision in one eye. I was made to feel that even
asking questions, because I loved my Grandpa, and was worried about him, was improper. What was I do to, just keep guessing what was going on?
The time came when my Dad had to take Grandpa's car away from him and sell it. This broke Frank Greenwood's heart, but he was endangering others and himself. He went down hill from there on, and lived in one nursing home after another, until his death. I remember how dirty and smelly these nursing homes (rest homes then) were. I recall how depressing it was to see him, and how depressed he looked. Our visits were usually very short, even after driving some distance to see him.
I think I know why our family enjoyed playing Canasta and Hearts. These marathon games provided protection from each other. They were sort of a security blanket, against hard feelings and resentments. My mother and grandma did not get along, and there had been veiled mutual criticisms. I know my grandparent's relationship was strained. I know my grandfather felt all alone, even abandoned, out there in the hot and dry desert. I know my parents didn't always enjoy the "chore" of the monthly weekend trip to the heat and barren wilderness of that time.
I know my brother and I felt "safer" having something to take up the
> time, especially when around my mother. She was a very critical,
hovering, protective person. She would not give us the freedom to find out who we were, by ourselves. She smothered us. Canasta and Hearts were a welcome diversion. Besides, we enjoyed beating our parents, grandparents, and each other.
My brother and I also loved our grandparents very much, especially our grandmother. She wasn't perfect, but she was soft and chubby, smelled good, spoiled us; and best of all; accepted and loved us as we were. We felt comfortable around here, safe. We could relax around her, and not feel under constant scrutiny. I guess that's why a lot of grandchildren love their grandparents so much, isn't it?
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