Some people fall in love with a hobby slowly, over time. Mine arrived early, taught to me at the kitchen table by my mother and grandmother, long before I understood strategy or point values or why certain cards mattered more than others. I was just a young girl learning a game they loved, unaware that those evenings would become some of the most treasured memories of my life.
My sister and I used to play with our grandmother during summer visits. She enjoyed the game too, but she never caught the bug quite like I did. I wanted to play constantly, to understand every rule, and I even practiced learning how to shuffle the cards like they did. My mother and I played regularly when I was still learning, and she never—ever—let me win. Not once. And I’m grateful for that.
I’ll never forget the night I finally beat her. She let me stay up late to finish the game, both of us determined to see it through. When I laid down my final meld and she realized I had won fair and square, she didn’t hide her pride.
Passing the Deck Forward
After I got married, I taught my husband to play. He picked up his strategy from my grandmother—her boldness, her unpredictability, her habit of holding onto just the right card until the perfect moment. And he loves to beat me. Truly loves it. Unfortunately for me, he does it often. But I can’t complain too much; watching him enjoy the game that shaped so much of my childhood feels like its own kind of victory.
We eventually taught our daughter, too. She plays with her husband now, carrying the tradition forward in her own home. And one day soon, I plan to sit at a card table with my grandchildren, teaching them the same way I was taught—slowly, lovingly, with patience and laughter and maybe a little competitive spark.
A Collection Built From Love
My love for canasta didn’t stop at the game itself. Over the years, it grew into a collection—boxes of vintage canasta cards, newer sets, themed decks, souvenir decks picked up from places we traveled. Since canasta typically takes two decks, it became a tradition: grab a couple from wherever we were visiting and add them to the growing treasure chest.
My mother, who inspired both my love of the game and my love of collecting, used to pick up old decks for me at antique stores. She had an eye for the ones with character—faded edges, retro fonts, quirky illustrations. Each deck felt like a little piece of history she had chosen just for me.
Recently, while deciding which set to use for a game, my husband found a note tucked into an old canasta rule book. It was from my mother. In her familiar handwriting, she told me how proud she was that I never stopped trying—in cards and in life. I sat with that note for a long time, letting her words settle in the way only a mother’s encouragement can.
The Table That Never Closes
I am so thankful she never let me win. I’m thankful for every late-night game, every lesson disguised as strategy, every laugh shared over a shuffled deck. Canasta isn’t just a card game to me, it’s a thread woven through generations in my family. It’s memory, tradition, connection, and love.
And if heaven has a card table, I imagine my mom will be waiting for a rematch…
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