On Monday, December 14, 2020 my grandmother died. This week I’m dedicating my time and effort to reflecting on her life and how she influenced me and so many around her. We examine the power of love and the resilience required to maintain it, strength in the face of adversity, and the search for just good-ole’ fashioned, no-frills, deep-fried, gravy-covered, and Texas-Pete-smothered southern value. This week’s post is a letter to you, Nana.
First off, my grandmother didn’t die from Covid. In September of 2017, she suffered a massive stroke. After more than 80 years of incessant movement, energetic chatter, and selfless service to others, she was suddenly and tragically resigned to a mostly bed-ridden existence for her final three years. Her health slowly declined until her life came to an end.
2020, what a year.
To say this woman was influential in my life is a vast chasm of an understatement. She, without overzealous coddling pervasive in modern “helicopter” parenting styles, unknowingly shaped and molded me. She simply led by example, instilling values of goodness through the way she lived. Some of my best virtues are ones she instilled. Many of my more selfish elements are where I did not heed her warnings.
I’m often asked how I can advise someone who spends freely and suffers with embracing frugality. The truth is that I really can’t relate, and I don’t feel helpful in that regard. My grandmother, a depression-era southern woman, deeply instilled in me the value of value. You should have seen this woman clear an ear of corn or a chicken wing. Good luck finding anything edible on her finished plate. Why would you ever pay for something you didn’t fully use?
I begin this letter with a story that I’ve told before, but it bears repeating.
The frugal (or rather full-value) collage. Clockwise from top: blown-out shoes still in heavy rotation, the once and still occasionally used change jar for coffee, and the “sucks but still works” water bottle that barely stands. These traits, for better or worse, I learned from you, Nana.
Nana on Milk
Nana, I recall sitting in the front seat of a two-door truck waiting for you to emerge from the grocery store. Even though I was the child, you always insisted on cramming yourself in the rear seat. This was probably around 1992, and I was eight or so years old. I turned to hear you pushing a rickety grocery cart towards the truck. You opened the door and began quickly shoving bags of groceries filled with two-liter bottles of full-sugar soda, BB’s (did they sell those at grocery stores?), King-Size Snickers, and all the things my parents would never allow.
Lordy-me, I need to go back in that store! There’s a sale! Can you sit here just a few minutes longer?
Five minutes later you returned with an entire shopping cart of one-gallon milk jugs. Apparently, milk was on sale, likely near expiration, so you bought out the entire selection. You brought them home, filled an outdoor freezer, and drank borderline rancid milk on discount for the remainder of the calendar year.
Leftovers With Nana
Nana, you had this amazingly frustrating rule about clearing your plate. I recall a time—albeit rare back when I was carrying a little bit more around the mid-section—when I didn’t finish a sandwich. I ate everything but the crust, which I was content to throw in the trash.
Whoa darling. You didn’t finish your sandwich. Let’s wrap that up and save it for later.
Whatever, I thought, insistent that those pieces of sandwich crust would be forgotten in some dark corner of the well-stocked fridge-a-der, as Papa called it.
That night you made a huge spread of my favorite: spaghetti with meat sauce.
I watched you pile everyone’s plate high. I started salivating like Pavlov’s dog as you began dipping the ladle deep into the stained and well-used cast iron pot full of rich, steaming, meaty sauce. You placed the plastic canister of cardboard-like parmesan cheese on the table, my favorite at the time. I imagined all the cheese. But just as I reached for my steaming pile of pasta, you tapped my hand, smiled kindly, and turned to open the fridge-a-der.
Ooohhhh, honey-child! You just eat the rest of your lunch first and you can have ALLLLL the spaghetti you want.
I ate cold, stale bread ends. And I ate my pride. Then I ate enough pasta to feed the infield of a little league baseball team.
To this day, and after a decade of working in the restaurant industry, I still cringe when I see food being thrown away. This frivolous wastefulness is something you never accepted in your home. And now, I don’t accept it in mine.
Nana on Learning to Love
You loved me and my brother dearly. In fact, you faced every situation with love first. The only time I can legitimately remember something approaching true anger from you was a time when I dropped a family sized glass jar of Prego Chunky Tomato pasta sauce on the floor from chest height. The jar shattered into a thousand pieces, and tomato sauce truly covered everything. Me, you, the walls, the ceiling, the fridge, the stove, the dog, my uncle, a rug, a television, and my soul.
For a minute I saw those Carrie eyes. You were going to burn this place down after you finished suffocating me with a drool-stained pillow (True story: I drool when I sleep, to this day).
But in an instant, I saw your face change to that of forgiveness. You didn’t smile—that would come the next day as we laughed about the experience—but you ushered me away, handed me fresh clothes, and explained to me how accidents happen to us all.
Bless your heart, child. This is just a mess. And messes can be cleaned. I think that show you like is on. Is it Doug? Phew-wee what a mess it is! I DO de-clare.
A Walk With Nana
I cherish our last real memory, or at least how I prefer to remember you. Not those depressing and too few visits in the nursing home. This was a simple and enjoyable walk.
In February of 2017, seven months before the day you changed forever, Mrs. CC and I, now “adults,” visited you and Papa.
Oh man, you guys have a fondness for dogs that can’t accurately be captured with words. You love your dogs! People say I have a thing with dogs, but this is next level. And you always knew how to fill a dog out.
Well, walking one of these lovable, yet stout creatures, is an adventure for two folks in their eighties. My wife and I offered to help you on a crisp, sunny, southern morning.
Out We Go
We stepped out to dew-covered grass and a misty, quiet neighborhood with far too much green vegetation for February.
As this dog grunted and waddled its way out the door, the leash came taught on your hand, Nana, jerking you forward suddenly. We rushed forward to help. We were too late. The dog caught wind of a passing neighbor and had begun to lose its mind. Watching you walk this dog was like watching a child walk a barking rhinoceros deep in the Serengeti.
As we walked, you kindly commented on my new pair of pants, which as it turns out are a shade of mustard.
I like those new must-ud pants.
As we all took turns grabbing the leash desperately, we enjoyed the last walk I would ever take with you. Eventually we returned, and upon facing a small hill leading up from the densely vegetated creek valley, you summarily called Papa from your cell phone. Obviously, this was a typical arrangement. You simply said…
Come on and get us.
In 30 seconds flat, a truck appeared over the hill and came to a stop. Papa exited the vehicle and helped us wrestle the baby rhino in the back seat, you two shouting at each other and us awkwardly trying to intervene in one of your private customs. You turned to me and briefly smiled, not failing to recognize the ridiculous humor in the moment. My wife and I declined the 20 second ride, and met you back at the house about two minutes later.
I cherish this silly walk, Nana.
The Bond
You and Papa were linked by an inseparable ionic bond. And despite your pervasive bickering, scolding, and at-times drill sergeant instruction style to Papa, you shared this love for over sixty years of marriage.
Today couples feel themselves entitled to a Prince Charming or a Maid Marian. Once we inevitably realize that our partners are fundamentally flawed, we run for the hills in search of that person that we truly deserve.
I don’t know if there’s an element of old southern stick-it-out-ness or if you truly held the secret to long-term relationships, but you two loved each other dearly and kept showing up for each other. Year after year, decade after decade. And with you gone, Nana, that love has bubbled to the surface in a soup of emotions, a burden that Papa now carries. But even in death, you’ve been a blessing in ways we may not yet know.
I too carry my own emotions. I’ve been burdened with a crippling feeling of guilt. I haven’t come close to fully reciprocating the love I experienced all those years ago. The modern adult world is so fundamentally different than decades past, Nana. We all move away, chase careers, chase experiences, and for me at least, neglect to embrace those who have mattered most in our formative years.
Years go by and visitations grow increasingly infrequent. And then, one day, you are gone.
Unpacking the Lessons From Nana
I’ve learned so much from you, Nana. The raw power of hard work, perseverance, and beauty in simple pleasures. I’ve learned that love doesn’t always look or sound pretty, but that love, in its simplest form, can last. Nana, you brought incredible strength to some of the darkest days imaginable for a mother or a daughter, or any human being at all. You know loss and you know tragedy. But most importantly, you never gave up. Even though it may seem that you left lying down, you made the world take you, fighting.
Today I miss you more than ever, Nana.
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Thanks guys, see you next week.
I’m not crying you’re crying….
That was beautiful and incredibly well done. She would have loved this.