Games, Golf & Grandma

My Grandma is more inclined to tackle cobwebs than the world wide web. She does not have an email account but still pays bills through snail mail. Today is her birthday and I highly doubt she will read this blog. However, I will still take a moment to reflect on some of the finer memories I have of her. We often define ourselves by our relationship with other people. I always saw a lot of myself in my grandma. We both keep to ourselves, are a little stubborn and prefer to wear the most comfortable clothes we can find. My Grandma loves to play golf, enjoys betting on horses and playing the lottery. Any athletic ability I inherited I attribute to her because she probably has the most natural talent of anybody else in my family. She is also about as intense in competition as I am.
Unfortunately I never spent more than a week at a time with my grandma growing up because she lives eight hours from me. I do remember just about every detail from our special trips to West Virginia. The car rides were always rigorous. In the winter, they were often snow-filled, slow and strenuous. Summer drives were better but no less exhausting. It seemed our family would travel all day to arrive at Grandma’s in time for a quick homecoming before we hit the hay. My grandma’s house is a wonderfully welcoming one, painted vivid green on the outside. The interior of the home was always the same. For the most part, Grandma and I like to keep things unchanged. We know where everything is kept in our neatly furnished rooms. The cozy confines were complete with a nifty attic and wide-open basement. Each time I visited, I made sure to pack a rubber ball I could throw against the basement wall. Her basement was the perfect ground for practicing my throws and pitches or playing “off the wall” with my sister. It also featured a sturdy old ping pong table. My sister and I would spend ample hours downstairs playing the game. We would come up with any reason just to go to the basement for another round of ping pong.
I used to search Grandma’s garage for what I like to call, “plastic sporting toys”. She had an arrangement of odds and ends once you got past the soiled gardening tools. High on my list were the bright orange scoopers you could play catch with. I also enjoyed her wiffle ball selection, toy tricycle and oval Velcro glove and ball set.
On the best summer days, Grandma would take us to the park up the street. I even remember her shooting hoops with me near the playground area. The wobbly seesaw and spiral ride-on animals at the park were about as old-fashioned as Grandma, but I still surmise they were special. My Grandma is very traditional but it’s that characteristic that I love most. She makes the best homemade waffles and signature “Gobs” and peanut butter balls. She leads a simple life by keeping up with yard work and living with only one television set. A wooden swing is a fixture in her back yard. It draws people from far and wide who enjoy sitting on the plain piece. Saving is a priority in these economic times. Grandma, like me, doesn’t spend money on life’s luxuries. A trip to mall for new attire means desperation for a change in wardrobe or a pressing need for a pair of shoes. Grandma is perfectly content in her white Keds and golf shorts. She took me to the driving range one time because she adores the game. I know she has a shelf of golf trophies in her basement, so she must have one a local tournament here and there. Grandma doesn’t get to play the game anymore but I am sure the game misses her.
There is a corner store on Grandma’s street where I bought my first baseball card price guide. I still have it stored on my bookshelf today. The last time I went to West Virginia was during a Yankees-Red Sox series. It was the infamous series when Pedro Martinez took Don Zimmer by his bald head and ungracefully pushed him to the ground. Grandma tried her best to understand my passion for the Yankees, and for baseball. She even impressed me a little with her knowledge of the rivalry. I imagine it’s hard to appreciate good baseball when your hometown team is the Pirates, and the majority of the city is nuts for the Steelers. I was happy for Grandma when Pittsburgh brought home another Superbowl in February. She is not a big professional sports fan, but gets into the Steelers hype. I follow all West Virginia football games because she bought me a Mountaineer sweatshirt as a child.
One summer morning Grandma drove my sister and I to the high school. I brought tennis racquets for us and we hit the ball around on the unfamiliar courts. For someone of her age, her footwork and swing were sound. It was special to share my favorite game with my Grandma. It must feel that way whenever Grandma takes us to her favorite venue, the Mountaineer Race Track. Grandma is a gambler. I am not. I could care less about betting, especially when it comes to sports. But, watching the horse races in West Virginia is something to behold. The people are fanatics, and Grandma is incredibly serious about betting. The chooses horses based on…well, gosh knows what! I do know Grandma’s numbers for the lotto (2-4-6) are favorites of hers. I like to think if I were a gambler, I would also have my “chosen” numbers. We have similar personalities in that we both know exactly what we want and what we like. If Grandma doesn’t like something, you know about it. If she enjoys something, you won’t soon forget.
We played card games constantly on vacations to Grandma’s house. Hearts, canasta and spoons were Grandma’s forte. I used to be an extremely sore loser, and probably still am. I might have learned not-so endearing quality from Grandma. I can try to channel the blame on her, but in truth, she is a fair gamer. It always seemed as if she would be steaming mad if she lost a game of cards. But, I never recall her losing! Board games were different. I could beat her at Scrabble or Rack-o handedly. Losses always tasted better with one of my Grandma’s frozen orange ice pops.
I’d wake up each morning in West Virginia and Grandma would already be in the kitchen in her color-coordinated sweatsuit. She would offer me breakfast and I would take a seat on the stool seat by the counter. I would watch her, admiring her candor and calm demeanor. Nothing ever seemed to bother her (well, unless you messed with her lawn). Grandma’s silver-white hair and wrinkle-wrapped dark eyes can greet me before any superstar athlete I follow. She is an athlete in her own right with skills and wit worth patterning and respecting.

Parting points: The new 311 album is released today.