My grandmother used to play solitaire. I can smell her cigarette smoke as I write about it now. She’d have that flimsy brown folding tray out in front of her and in one corner was an ashtray with at least one butt smoldering in it and in the other corner a cream-green ceramic coffee cup, smoke rising from that, too. She’d lose herself in that world. I could rob the candy pantry all I wanted while she worked that nine of spades on the end – totally transfixed. Maybe that’s why I love playing it so much. Despite her vices she was as a gentle as a breeze. There wasn’t much she couldn’t fix in my world and to this day, God rest her soul, I have no idea where her magic came from. But I guess that’s the thing with grandmothers: they have special powers despite their earthly hobbies.
January 27, 2012
