why the elephants?

There wasn't a single room in our grandmother's home (Dona Marta to you) that didn't have an elephant in it. Every elephant had its place and, more importantly, every trunk faced away from the front door so "luck" wouldn't escape from the house.

It wasn't until after her death two years ago that we discovered she had a lifelong addiction to gambling. Growing up, we knew she liked to play “numbers” and that she loved going to Atlantic City with the girls, but we had no idea she was a gambleholic ... er ... gambaholic ... er ... gamboholic ... er ... compulsive gambler. The signs were there, but we way too busy figuring out our own lives to pay attention to them.

Upon her death, our father told us how much he admired her smarts, cleverness and entrepreneurial skills while growing up in the “campo.” She always worked, started small businesses, and managed to make money in the strangest ways. However, he was disappointed that her drive was fueled by her need to raise funds for gambling.

It wasn’t until she moved to America, that she started collecting elephants. As driven as she was, her limited English skills prevented her from earning money the way she used to. She had a series of part time jobs that helped support her habit, but mostly, she relied on her elephants to help her score big (and the kindness of ... everyone).

One day, I came home after school and found my piggy bank broken and emptied of its meager contents. No one fessed up that day, but I had a feeling that my one of my younger cousins was to blame. Now I can safely say that my cousin was innocent and that my grandmother’s hands were covered in pig blood.

One time (not in band camp), I visited Ma at her apartment on Castle Hill and, like one does in the ghetto, I shouted up to her window to get her attention (the buzzer never worked). No answer, but an elderly lady sitting on a lawn chair called me over to tell me that she wasn’t in, but I could find her at her “spot.” She gave me directions and I was off.

As I walked behind the strip mall across the street, which delivery men avoided, to find her “spot,” I experienced a flashback of me and Susie buying pot back when we were teenagers in Rosedale. You had to go down the alley at the center of the block, between Manor and Ward, make the first left, and then look for the “brick.” It took us a while to find it because the light bulbs had been smashed, but we noticed a flicker of light behind one of the walls; we placed our five dollars through the bricks, and received a nickel bag from which we rolled eight full sized joints ... ah, the good ol’ days. Nowadays, I have way too much sense and fear to do something like that (besides a nickel bag only nets you a puff).

But I digress ... flash forward ... I went down this deserted alley, looking over both shoulders, and found the “spot.” I opened the steel, gray door and saw my grandmother at the end of a bank of slot machines. I had no idea places that mini casinos like this existed in the Bronx. She didn’t even look up as I walked up to her. “Hey,” I said. “Prestame dies dollars,” she said. I “gave” her a ten, because her definition of “lend” was missing the repayment part. She pocketed the ten, finished playing her quarters and we left for her apartment.

I asked her if she went there often and she replied that she went only once in a while. We hung out together for an hour or so before I had to leave. She decided to walk me to the bus stop, which she never did before. As I boarded the bus, I watch her walk toward the alley. Once in a while ... my ass.

When she passed, her daughters were in charge of her possessions. We weren't interested in the photo albums, the letters, or the Siemans furniture. We each wanted an elephant and fortunately, no one had to fight for one because there were enough for each child, grandchild, and great-grandchild. I was given a beautiful blue one from the San Francisco Music Box Company. I had given it to her when I was twenty-five.

On my only trip to Las Vegas, I decided to play the slot machines. Since I like my money too much to part with it in ways that are unfulfilling, I only gambled twenty dollars worth of quarters. As I pressed the button (too lazy to pull the arm) I thought of Ma, the blue elephant, and the many new ones I have since collected (not for luck, but because they remind me of her). Once I emptied my cup, I looked down in the tray and was pleased to find many shiny quarters. The winnings covered our hotel bill and the bar tab that evening. We drank to my grandmother and hoped that in her heaven, she possessed a bottomless bucket of quarters embossed with her lucky charms.