Saturday, midsummer, about 15 years ago...
"What're you doing tonight?"
"Nuthin', why?"
"You guys wanna play cards down here?"
"Yeah, sure, what ti..." while getting interrupted
"Doesn't matter what time. Just get down here. Don't worry about bringing anything. I'll make dinner."
"OK, see you in a couple hours."
So we hopped in LABEAST (my lil black 4-banger) and booked on down the road for what was sure to be a memorable evening with my saintly grandmother. After a dinner of pork chops baked in brown gravy, mashed potatoes, cooked red cabbage with raisins (german style), danish puff pastry for dessert, and an animated gabfest, it was time for serious business.
Ron cleaned our clocks in the first game of Liverpool Rummy, and there were lots of "You Farmer!" comin' from one end of the table. Naturally, he got his clocked clean in the second game, so it was all square between the Sharks. I was just an innocent bystander - or necessary third wheel - content to watch the little old lady shake down the usually quiet and reserved master strategist.
Then we changed games to Up and Down the River, which requires a lot more strategy. In my crazy family, it's not enough to "make the hand", one must be able to, forgive me here, "screw the neighbor's hand" as well. Hey, I'm talking about the card game, ya know!?!
Now midway through the second game of UDR, Ron's been looking out the dining room window at the house across the street. Seems the neighbors over there are not exactly the kind you want in da 'hood, but hey, as long as it's not comin' at me 'n mine, I'm content to just let it be. (Dude who lives next door to those neighbors doesn't like them or their dog and every Saturday he takes a shovel and flings their dog's "calling cards" back at their house, which looks like it's been guano-bombed in a bad way.) Anyway, it's the time of gloaming - a time of early evening where strange things have been known to happen - and this particular Saturday night was no exception.
I'm sitting across the table from Ron with my back to the window, and I keep watching him shift to the left and look over my shoulder, which is more or less driving me nuts and distracting me from my "how do I screw both their hands" strategy. So I inquire about his shuckin' and jivin', to which I get his standard non-committal reply: Nuthin', so we keep playing the game.
Saturday, at gloaming, midsummer, 15 years ago, hot card game in progress, dead silence...
"What the F**k's goin' on out there?" yelled Ron
I have now been pulled out of a deep spell of creative thinking with my head jerked up so hard it feels like I've crunched a couple vertebrae and will need medical care soon. My wide eyes stare in aghast at Ron, then turn to my grandmother, then back to Ron. I don't know what to think, let alone how to respond to his outburst.
Then it hits him...Ron's just dropped the F-bomb at the top of his lungs in front of my grandmother. We both dare to look her way, and we find this saint of a woman, who's the sweetest person you'll ever meet, with a mitt-full of cards in one hand and her forehead propped up with the other. She's trying to figure out her strategy and is quite oblivious to Ron's outburst.
"Now just a minute..." says the ol' Shark/Saint/Grandmother
...and she "screws both our hands" while laughing her head off.
We both look at her and yell "You Farmer!"
Next post: Jumping on Cars (coming soon to a blog near you)
