Solitaire

I used to love playing cards. I'm sure I still do. I haven't, however, played in years. I played cribbage, war, crazy 8's and rummy with relish. I would also play a couple games with Finnish names that I know how to pronounce but haven't a clue how to spell. With a deck of cards in my hands I could be entertained for hours.

My dad used to tell me that his mother was very much against card playing. She believed that cards were linked with the devil. Yet, when I visited my grandmother in Finland -- I was ten years old at the time -- she revealed a deck of cards that were tucked away in a drawer in her sitting room. She handed them over to me and winked. This was the same woman who demanded I accompany her to Christmas Eve service but when she noticed that I was a bit figidity -- I had never gone to a service before and this one was all in the Finnish language -- she opened up her purse and slowly unwrapped a hard candy making sure to make more then her share of crinkly noises with the paper. She winked again as we both noticed others in the congregation turning around to give us the 'be quiet or else' stare and giggled along with me as we both popped candies into our mouths.

My grandmother had to be stern with my dad and his brothers. She was their mother. She raised them on her own after her husband had been stolen from her by the Stalinist's. She led her family out of occupied territory during the Second World War to the relative security of a new country -- Finland. She worked many different jobs to keep food on the table and clothes on their backs. I didn't know any of this when I met her. I only knew what my dad had said about her. When I finally stood before her for the first time my preconceived ideas disappeared almost immediately. This woman was a jokester filled with giggles seemingly always on the cusp of bubbling out of her. Her eyes were bright blue and sparkled with mischievous warmth. Most importantly, this woman was my grandmother. The hug she gave me when I first stepped into her apartment was one of the best I have ever had before or since. This was love unconditionally given. I felt grounded by her arms and her history. Centred. Whole.

Years later, I saw her again. This time, she was in a home. This time she didn't know me. Once again I had to juxtapose the image before me with preconceived notions held in my heart. She spent the entire visit dipping sugar cubes into coffee and sucking them into nothingness. This action was made all the more poignant when examined as a metaphor. Her eyes were still bright but instead of being warm they were cold and sharp. Distant. My grandmother was gone. Away.

My memories of her will remain with me for as long as I am. I hope to pass these on to my children so that they too may feel rooted in a history that reaches out beyond their immediate perception. Our histories are made up of so many collective and individual experiences: wonderful, enchanting, terrifying, heart breaking, ugly, beautiful . . . . Although the order of these experiences appears random I have to wonder if this is really the case. Maybe it just seems random because we are using a newly shuffled deck and are only dealt a few cards at a time. Is it up to us to make sense of it all or should we just concentrate on playing the game?