a game of canasta

It is easier, said my grandmother, to talk about anything but the truth. She insisted that gossip was created just to ignore the truth and to erase any facts. My grandmother also insisted that if someone had to speak for more than at least 10 minutes anything after the eleventh minute was useless garbled garbage.

Many times my grandmother and her sisters, would come over to our house for their weekly card game of Canasta. The conversation would start with the health of most of the relatives and once matters of doctors and hospitals were run to the ground, the conversation would meander to such hot topics as was he a schicker (a drunk), does he have more money in debts than in the bank, or was that pinch on the tuchus (tush) towards his secretary just a one time nudge or more? Once speculation became the norm, my grandmother would slap her cards on the table and say enough, do you know if he drinks, do you know if he is in debt, do you know if he schtooped (had sex)?

Her sisters would place their cards to their lips, mainly because even if they were appalled did not want anyone to see their hands, and also because, I imagine, they were making faces at my grandmother. The older of the sisters Aunt Mima, would say in a mixture of Romanian and English, Eva, if we think we know what really happened it is the truth. Even if some of what we know is true, we are sure what we don't know is worse. Then her youngest sister Aunt Ciel, would clear her throat and add, that she indeed did know the truth, but until certain matters were cleared up this bit of information could act as the truth. A cousin who was the fourth player, usually cousin Clara, waited her turn in this matriarchy list of women, and said, that if someone doesn't mention the unmentionable, the truth will lie dormant, so raising it from the death of denial is the correct thing to do. All three women would then remove the cards from their mouths, look at one another, and most likely , Aunt Mima, the eldest, would say now what was the last play?

Few times my grandmother would acquiesce and let the game begin again. Many times she would, instead, place her cards, face down of course, and look each woman in the eye, slowly turning her head so they knew she was speaking to them. You would rather inflame the fire, by wicked words none of which come from your heart but from some sad place where only the sorry live. You would rather make others sound worse for fear that you might be found out to be the phony. You would rather like to hide behind what it is you wish for them wishing for anyone else not to be better than you.

The room would become quiet the ladies would clear their throats, one would open her pocket book, pull out a white linen handkerchief with her monogram on it, another would fold the cards and the third would push her chair away from the table then they would all look at my grandmother and say perhaps you have a point. We should discuss what we know not what we believe. Just in the nick of time my mother would bring in the sandwiches and desserts

It is the countdown to raising the debt ceiling or not. We have politicians pontificate as to why the rich need not pay more taxes while the poor to middle class experience cuts to their social services. We have compromises which once listed become obsolete never to be heard from again. We are told by Republican and Democrat spin machines how the other party is preaching false propaganda. Everyone is speaking for more than 10 minutes each and none of them is speaking the truth. And soon this game will be over, without anyone speaking up and calling everyone out for speaking from their from their heart but from some sad dark place where only the sorry live.