The game of Canasta is usually played with 3-5 people, but I like playing with 4 the best. Two standard decks are combined and shuffled, thoroughly. Then the dealer gives the deck to the person to their right to cut it in half, to ensure that the dealer isn’t cheating. Fifteen cards are then dealt, clockwise, to each of the players. It is acceptable to deal three cards at a time instead of the traditional one, for a large amount of cards are being dealt to each player.

 My polish grandmother, Baci (pronounced “Bachi”) was first and foremost a teacher. Although she wore many titles, I considered her a teacher even before a grandmother. She made her career as a grade school music teacher and continued to teach piano years after she retired. It seemed like every time I saw her, she taught me something new. Whether it was which fork to use at a formal dinner, the proper technique to decorate a polish Easter egg, or how to make homemade perogies, I attribute a significant part of my life-knowledge to her.

She was the one who taught my sister, cousin and me how to play Canasta, something that would later become a summer staple and a source of bonding. Around her kitchen table, beside the newspaper coupons and scattered crossword puzzles, I remember repeating the rules over and over again into the night, until we each knew the strategies and keys to the game. Baci was patient and thorough with her explanations, and would quickly yet kindly correct our mistakes when we made them. With her, being taught never felt like formal learning. It just felt like a conversation.

Once all players have received their fifteen cards, 5-7 minutes are devoted to strategizing. From the main deck, the first card is flipped over and the game can begin. Through a series of turns, each player has the opportunity to draw and discard cards to form lays. All lays may be a combination of natural and wild cards.

It always amazed me how smart my Baci was. As she grew older, she always kept learning a priority. Maybe it came from her teaching background, but I think she was just naturally a student of life. Her knowledge was never confined to a subject or category. She would always tell me to never stop learning, even after I graduated from college.

One of her favorite things to do was completing crossword puzzles. In the morning, you could expect to find her sitting at the kitchen table—glasses perched on her nose, coffee mug in one hand, pen loosely held in the other—gazing down at a folded newspaper section, as classical music played in the background. Growing up, I would wander downstairs in her shore house and find her like this. It was usually the smell of bacon that awoke me, and even if she were in midthought, Baci would jump up from her crossword puzzle to greet me with a hug and pancakes. Then we would sit and continue her crossword puzzle, her whispering the right answers in my ear, and me trying to perfect my shaky-childhood handwriting to match hers. I loved how she knew the exact word for every cryptic clue and finding the completed puzzle later on in the afternoon. Every time I see a crossword, I think of her.

The object of the game is create a “canasta.” A “canasta” includes at least 4 same natural cards and up to 3 wild cards. You must have one canasta before “going out,” which ends the round. On rare occasions, a player may open the gameplay with a full canasta and lays, in which case, the game starts and ends within one turn.

If I had to pick one word to describe Baci, it would be dramatic. In that sense, her and I are kindred spirits. My parents always joke around where I get my dramatic-larger-than-life personality from, and we always attribute it to Baci’s genes. I cannot imagine a time when Baci wasn’t preparing for some performance. She always organized and conducted her town’s community choir concerts. I particularly remember their annual Christmas concerts when I would get to dress up in my best dress and hand out programs. The town seemed to love to see the 5-year-old granddaughter enthusiastically helping her Baci. I used to love to watch her conduct as I sat in the back of the dimly lit church. Her conducting outfit, which always had a hint of sparkle, would glisten under the spotlights as Christmas hymns filled the air. I think it was the joy in her face that I loved the most.

Growing up, I can’t even begin to count the number of shows my cousins and I put on for our family. Baci would often narrate a classic nursery story or fable as my small cousins and I would appear, disappear, and reappear from behind a wooden partition to signify different scenes. Sometimes, she helped me put on some of her lipstick because I insisted it was part of my costume. Make-believe and imaginary play was my favorite thing to do with her growing up. Our tea-parties with empty plastic teacups became real, and I truly believed that she was the Wicked Witch of the West when I pretended to throw water on her as Dorothy. Baci even took play-writing classes and once did a one-woman show. As a performer, she was absolutely enthralling as she effortlessly captured an audience with her full, rich voice and expressive face.

But her dramatics never stayed contained to the stage, which is something I can relate to. With a large personality comes a love for the dramatics in every day life. During our games of Canasta, Baci would occasionally feign that she had a bad hand, and then, with a twinkle in her eye, go out with one move. It never failed to get an uproar of disbelief from my cousin, sister, and me, even though we came to expect it after a while. She knew the game well and did love dramatic endings.

Sometimes a round of Canasta can last up to an hour, and there are always multiple rounds. One single game can last an entire evening. Although the game is long, between turns, players often casually chat and joke about their individual cards and strategies to prevent other players from going out. It is a strategic, yet extremely social game.

 Everything Baci did, she did with passion. This is something I admired her for. Some of her passions included music and singing (she took me to an Opera for my 16^th birthday), all kinds of games (card or board ones, her house was filled with them), puzzles (crosswords and jig-saws alike), cooking (“butter, salt and garlic make everything taste better”), art (she was a brilliant at sketching and painting), and reading (she always had a new book that my mom or I just had to read next).

But one of Baci’s main passions that truly shaped her life was her love of people. I don’t think I know a more social person than my Baci. I’m pretty sure that she had a busier schedule than I did, even though I’m a college student and she was a retired music teacher. Besides conducting her community choir, she was an avid tennis player, ran a weekly games group, was highly involved in her local women’s club and taught English as a second language. Every time I talked to her on the phone, she would tell me about the newest thing she was involved in. Partly because I think she liked to stay busy, but mostly because I know she adored people. She loved talking and connecting, and you could always feel the warmth in her hugs. Plus she loved to throw a great party. Her biggest joy was having her family over for holidays, and usually insisted on doing so. The night would always end with happy tears in her eyes, and a flutter of “I love you’s.”

The game of Canasta ends when one player reaches 5000 points. After all the points are tallied and re-checked, players are encouraged to congratulate the winner and show good sportsmanship. Then, a new game of Canasta can begin.

 When I think of my Baci, I think playing Canasta will always immediately come to mind. I played with her for years, and through those games, learned so much about one of the most wonderful women I’ve ever known. My last memory of my Baci is playing Canasta with her, my cousin and my sister at her large wooden table in her shore house. We played late into the night like we always did, and she made cheese and crackers during the breaks between rounds. I can’t remember who won the whole game, but I’m assuming it was her because she always won, despite our determined attempts to beat her.

After reviewing our final scores, I gave her a hug goodnight and told her I would see her soon. As much as I miss her, I am truly blessed that my last moments with her were spent playing a game bonded us on so many levels. I know that we will be able to play Canasta again someday.

Rest in Peace, Baci. I will truly miss you.

Here’s to my Baci & Canasta.

I have a theory. For all you avid book-readers out there, you might get what I’m saying. For those of you who aren’t literary-inclined, just bear with me. My favorite English nerd supports this theory, so I think it’s pretty legit. Here it goes.

Think back to the best book you’ve ever read. When you first pick it up, you move slowly through the first couple pages, noticing all the tiny details, focusing on all the individual words. The left of the book feels light with foreshadowing, while the right side weighs heavy with potential. It’s drawing you in, a little bit at a time.

If it’s a good book (it has to be for the sake of my theory), you begin to flip through the pages faster. The left side starts to feel even with the right side, as the beginning transitions to the middle of the story. You’re engaged. Entertained. Enthralled.

Now the Sweet Spot of a book comes right after the middle. You’re a little more than half way through, but not close enough to the end yet. You’re not paying attention to every single word, or every single detail. Instead you don’t even feel like you’re even reading. You’re absorbing the story, devouring the book. It doesn’t matter that you’re missing the tiny nuances that the author meticulously placed in. You’re experiencing the story in a completely different way, in a way that goes deeper than the words. You’re immersed in the story and you keep reading and reading, you can’t stop and you don’t want to, and you don’t even notice the number of pages dwindling by the minute, and

Then it’s over. The end of the book. Of course you knew it was coming, but you didn’t want it to come that quickly.

Now take this theory and apply it to life. Say, senior year. I’m in my Sweet Spot of college. Currently, I’m on campus, planning for our New Student Orientation Program. I’m on the Steering Committee and part of my responsibilities is to plan the 4-day program for the new incoming freshmen as well as the training for staff (who comes in a week! ah!). I’ve been looking forward to this time of year since January, but also dreading it’s arrival.

Now that doesn’t make sense, right? I knew that this month of August would be the start of the Sweet Spot. I knew I would be immersed in planning, laughing, bonding, growing, leading and I would start to forget the details and just be overcome by the experience and the unique feeling that I get from this group of people and program. And I knew I would love it. And I knew it would go so fast.

I didn’t want it to start because I didn’t want it to end. Read that again. I didn’t want it to start because I didn’t want it to end. How ridiculous is that? (My favorite English nerd told me so as well). And now that I’m here, exactly in the middle of Steering Training, I was right. It’s FLYING by but I’m loving it. I’m so happy. It’s the perfect Sweet Spot. I never want it to end.

 

***

I wrote that part of the post a couple days ago and didn’t know how to finish it. Right after I ended that last sentence, the rest of the Steering Committee and I went to have dinner with the President of Villanova, Father Peter. (You read it right. We had dinner with the President. He cooked us dinner and we drank wine and laughed. Check that off my bucket list.) During that dinner, I found myself having a true moment of awe. I was surrounded by probably the most wonderful people I’ve ever known, eating dinner with a man that every Villanovan admires. I felt full of joy. I kept thinking “yea, this is it. I made it.”

One of the advisers for Orientation is fond of the phrase “Enjoy it.” Simple, two words, but has refocused me during this Sweet Spot. Instead of calculating how many days are left, or evaluating how I’m changing or what I’m learning, I find myself just enjoying it. Letting the all the emotions of this experience wash over me so I can just soak it in. Of course Orientationland will come to an end, just like all Sweet Spots do, but hopefully if I just sit back and take in the moments, I won’t feel so empty after it ends. That’s the difference between books and life. Books have a last page, while life keeps getting written.

Here’s to Sweet Spots & Enjoying it.

 

I’m a latte drinker by nature. Specifically a tall, skinny caramel latte drinker (occasionally iced), but I’m a latte drinker nonetheless. However, this summer I’ve taken up Starbucks iced coffee (usually with some caramel, seems like I can’t shake the caramel). I felt the need to change it up, and to be honest, this change was mostly motivated by the fact that iced coffee is a hell of a lot cheaper than iced lattes (and don’t lose their flavor as they become watered down, barista tip). While you might see this as a simple change between caffeinated beverages, it means slightly more to me. Like I graduated from vanilla bean frappuccinos to lattes, I have now moved on from lattes to iced coffees (for the moment, at least). To me, iced coffees aren’t just iced coffees either. This transition is mirroring another transition in my life: putting on my big girl pants. That’s right, this summer is my crash course in real adulthood.

It seems like the time between finishing my junior year to feeling more comfortable referring to myself as a “rising senior,” life decided that I needed to gain some real grown-up experience. The first week of summer, I got pulled over because my car inspection sticker was 6 months overdue, which  left me with a hefty fine to pay and a trip to the DMV the next day. I made my first rent payment for the house I’m living in for the summer and realized how much groceries actually cost. I’ve been hyperactive about turning off all the lights when I leave a room and refuse to turn on the AC in the 98 degree heat because paying obnoxious utility bills doesn’t sound fun. I got in my first fender-bender in the Starbucks parking lot (where I got an iced coffee, coincidentally enough), which means I’ve spoken to my insurance agent, made a claim and learned what a “deductible” is. I’ve felt the pressure of not receiving a pay check on time, and my roomie and I may or may not have stolen toilet paper from the Villanova admissions office to avoid paying for some. If this isn’t adulthood, I’m not sure what is.

I knew this day would come. I knew that the blissful semi-reality of college would fade once I moved off campus and had to deal with annoying neighbors and large bugs on my own. I guess it’s a good thing. Dealing with these things now–when my parents are just a phone call away and beyond understanding when I damaged my car… again…–can only give me more knowledge for when I (gulp) graduate next year. As much as it sometimes sucks, I’ve found myself just biting the bullet and doing what I have to do. Someday I won’t have to sacrifice so much or worry about money all the time (hopefully), and it will be ten times sweeter because I’ve had to live the poor-college-senior life for a while. It’s a rite of passage really.

But don’t worry, I haven’t lost all my crazy young-adultness yet. I still dance like a fool in the lawn section of a country concert, get excited by summertime fireworks and stay up late for no reason laughing with my friends. And I’m not giving up those things any time soon.

The biggest thing I’ve learned so far? Adulthood is a lot of car problems and feeling broke more often than not. But the crazy feeling of young independence is beyond worth it. Maybe this adulthood thing won’t be so bad.

Here’s to iced coffees (for the time being) & breaking in my big girl pants.