Game Night…Grandma Style

I’ve always loved a good game night. Cards, dice, you name it—I’m in. But when I think of the games that truly shaped me, I always come back to Canasta and my Grandma Is. Our games were more than just a way to pass the time—they were moments of laughter, competition, and connection. And no, I never cheated. I never even considered if I could get away with it.

Growing up, Grandma Is and I would spend our summer afternoons playing card games and dice games on the round fiberglass table in her patio. She taught me Kings in the Corners, Go Fish, and Old Maid. As I got older, we graduated to a long game of 500, a Rummy-style challenge that I always suspected she secretly let me win. One of our favorites was Zilch, a dice game. I still have the little jewelry ring box that holds the six dice and her handwritten instructions—proof that some traditions deserve to be preserved.

But the game that really brought us together was Canasta.

I was in my early 30s and living back in Beaver Dam when Grandma Is invited me to be her partner for the Canasta Marathon group she was part of. Let me clarify: “marathon” might sound intense, but it was just a group of older ladies who rotated hosting duties at their homes. The host would provide a sweet treat during the break, and we’d all be back in our own houses by 9:00. It wasn’t exactly Vegas.

Playing with Grandma was my way of staying close to her—of being part of her world. I never hesitated when she asked me to join, and it became our weekly tradition. I’d pick her up, we’d gossip about the other players on the way, and we’d grumble about Bennett and her partner always being in the lead. I’m still convinced Bennett was using some kind of Canasta sorcery.

When Grandma Is got sick, I became my other grandma’s Canasta partner. The tradition continued, and we kept right on griping about Bennett as if nothing had changed. I guess every game night needs a villain.

I think the last time I played was the night Grandma Is passed. I was with Grandma Doris, playing somewhere—honestly, I don’t even remember where. My phone rang, and I was told that everyone was at Grandma Is’s house and we should come right away. Grandma Doris didn’t even look up from her hand. “No,” she said firmly. “We need to finish the game.”

So we did. We finished, and then we drove to Grandma Is’s. She had already passed by the time we arrived.

Looking back, I spent countless hours with her in those final months. We shared stories, memories, and a lifetime’s worth of card games. When I saw her that night, though, I knew she wouldn’t have wanted anyone to see her like that. Her dentures had been taken out to help her “breathe”, and she looked… not like herself. My first words—without even thinking—were, “Where are her teeth?” Leave it to me to focus on details that didn’t matter when the big picture felt too overwhelming.

Now when I see that little box of dice or catch a glimpse of a thick Canasta deck, I can’t help but smile. It’s funny how a simple card game can hold so many memories—of love, competition, and stubbornly finishing what you start. Grandma Is taught me how to play, how to win (sometimes), and how to stay connected, one game at a time.

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