| I grew up in a household where playing cards was considered on par with consorting with the devil: something nice girls didn't do. My mother was less than pleased when, the summer I was about twelve, a much older cousin taught me to play solitaire, though she finally conceded it would probably not send me straight into the jaws of perdition. I went from solitaire to gin rummy, then discovered spades my first week at college. I've been a devoted fan ever since, and could not wait until my sons were old enough to learn the game. Though I've yet to master Canasta, Kate's poem resonated with me the moment I read it, because I know well that "dance" around the table--eyes locked, telepathic messages pulsating, smirks at the ready. No matter how bad anyone's day has been, channeling tension into laughter and concentration, repairing "the rips of the day's separations," as she creatively describes it, is a fine way for a family to come together. So whose deal? |
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