You | Me

I don’t remember learning to play Canasta, although I am pretty sure I wasn’t born knowing. It is kind of a constant in our family and I don’t remember a time when we didn't play.

My grandmother and the girls seated at the table where we played Canasta at the family farm.

Canasta is a cross between bridge and rummy. It was developed in the late 1940s by an architect and a lawyer in Uruguay as an easy and time-efficient alternative to bridge. It became a craze in Latin America and then came to North America where it was all the rage for awhile. My grandmother took a course on how to play in the 1950s in Edmonton. She taught it to her husband and her three sisters. And so it went.

When we were kids in the 1960s visiting our grandparents in Beaverlodge, the aunts - or the “girls” as my grandfather called them, even though they were in their 70s and hated being called the “girls” or the “aunts” because "we're individuals"- would come over and we would play. My one brother would team up with Granddad, both of them with the same strategy of going out early just to catch others with cards in their hands. I doubt it won them any games. For them it was less about themselves winning and more about us losing. My younger brother played with my grandmother, both quiet and crafty. They won a lot. I often played with my mom, for whom the cards were secondary to the chatter around the table. Canasta is a game you can play without concentrating too hard, although it’s hard to win if you aren't paying attention. Which, as my husband kindly points out, is why I never win since I am not paying attention at all. (I think he's overstating it BTW.)

Hart is winning, Tumbler Ridge.

In later years in Tumbler Ridge my sister learned a version called “Hand and Foot” where you have a second hand of cards -known as your “foot” - that you can only access when you have played down your hand. You need a lot of cards to play “Hand and Foot” and my parents had a chocolate box full of cards for that purpose. Hand and foot became the game of choice and it’s the version we play when we get together wherever we are.

Everyone has some kind of idiosyncrasy when it comes to this game.  Elizabeth never picks up the deck. My dad and my husband always pick up the deck and if you sit on one side of them, you will inevitably throw away something they will pick up and if you sit on the other side, you’ll be getting nothing but black threes all night. Cause for some cursing for sure. My brother is still quiet and crafty. It's important to know your partner's quirks because your cards need to merge advantageously with theirs in order for your team to win. Dave and Geordie, take note.

Kerry ponders a move.

My cousin Kerry and I keep up the chit chat now, which is hard not to do because when you have a dozen people or more all playing, it takes a long time before your turn comes around. Sometimes there can be silliness, like the time the kids decided it would fun to play in crazy hats and speak with accents. Or they brought a dog to the table. My dad found that annoying. He played like he was in it to win it and didn’t appreciate the distractions. Although he would occasionally add his own distractions with some choice terms or an engineering song.

When we weren’t there, my parents often played with just the two of them, keeping score night after night. The records still remain in that Pot of Gold chocolate box. My mom complained bitterly that Dad always won, but did he? When they died, our eldest asked for that box. Inside, decks and decks of cards mingled together, many worn and dirty. And page after page of Canasta scores in my dad’s handwriting, columns neatly labelled “You” and “Me”, detailing every game the two of them played, year after year. Somewhere in those records is a tally of all their scores, completed by my dad. In all those years and years of games, the point total was so close. She must have won at least half the time.

Dad's scoresheets.

When my mom’s dementia set in, she told us she couldn’t play. She didn’t know the rules. But then someone volunteered to play with her, maybe my cousin or my sister. In no time she had her hand organized. She could play. She remembered the rules even when she didn’t know what day or year it was or the names of her grandchildren sitting at the table. I guess when you do something so repeatedly, the rules get ingrained in you. Maybe that’s why Mom still knew the rules when so much else had fallen away.

My sister is unimpressed with her hand 

Today's game doesn't much resemble the one my grandmother learned so long ago. It's a game so you should care about winning or losing but nobody really cares if it's "you" or "me" that ends up with the higher score. Our game spans decades and generations, modified by time, geography and family dynamics. And while the rules may have changed, the essence remains.  Sitting around a table late at night surrounded by family, in a room filled with laughter. And maybe a little cursing.