Our Grammar lived in an apartment above an alehouse. She was a dear old Grammar, full of pith, with a steady hand at the spinning wheel and sharp tongue at the table. On Sundays, after church, Grammar played three-card gleek with her blue-haired friends, swapping gossip and betting toothpicks. She was, on the whole, level-headed. But it was Grammar’s house and Grammar’s game. There might have been a chance for one of the other women to win, but they never took it. Grammar’s notoriously short fuse was well respected among her friends and enemies alike. One hint of cheating — and a winning hand dealt by anyone but Grammar was a hint of cheating in her book — would send her into a torrent of expletives. Then there was no stopping her. It was best to let her vent, apologize the guests out the door, find the nearest closet, and hide.