by Ben Rayman

Created on: February 10, 2010

Your Deal . . .

It came every year, a tradition that involves two men. Their lives became transformed during their annual family gatherings. What I had thought card playing was all about, being a friendly game of socialization, I came to learn that a set of flat pieces of thin cardboard, ornamented with figures and numbers, usually rectangular in shape with rounded edges, were my brother-in-law’s weapon in bloodless war of skill.

In 1975, Bob entered my life when I became the youngest “recruit” in the Grabowsky family with my marriage to Pat, his wife’s sister. It never crossed my mind that someday, it would become a struggle to say goodbye to him while holding onto that same happiness that filled me up with that before anticipation, and kept me sustained during those long dawn-to-dusk 800-mile trips from Indiana to New York.

In our first round of two-weeks of seasonal togetherness, Bob and I spent countless hours in glued together activities that left us caught between youth and adulthood. They brought out not only the sublime, but also the more ridiculous in us both. Spring was our time to create new beginnings and it also kept the relationship fresh.

We were separated in age by a generation-and-half, our likeness of things, lifestyle, and ideals; I felt was unique. I am more open and liberal in thought; however I was always dumbfounded at how he expressed what I was thinking at that time. Frankly, he gave my thoughts verbal life, and usually surfaced when I was driving in his war zone.

Sometimes our communications were almost telepathic. “That broad most have gotten her license at K-mart!” Bob cheered. I smiled and raised my hand if I should ask her to choose a finger. He came back with one of his quotations: “Craft must have clothes, but truth loves to go naked.” As I weaved around her, he sat motionless, staring ahead, and gave her the salute. Once by, our pent up laughter burst out simultaneously.

We never seemed to run out of conversation, regardless of the topic. The same went for Pat and Bob’s wife Janet; sisters whom we sometimes forgot were riding in the back seat with us. When I listened to their conversation, I could hear they were also in their own world, like Bob and I, but eventually certain comments would join us all in talk. The sisters were chatting about one of our upcoming day vacation plans. “I can’t wait to see the Met,” Pat said excitedly. I looked at Bob, and told

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