Nana

Tomorrow my cousin should receive three boxes of my grandmother's dishes that I finally put in the mail to her. I have saved these for her daughter for at least 10 years, carting the dishes around from place to place, state to state. With this last move, it was finally time to get them out of the garage and into her hands.
Boxing up her dishes in bubble wrap, I couldn't help but remember her and the many visits we had in her home. Walking in the side door and up the steps into the kitchen, the first thing that I always noticed was the strong odor of stale coffee grounds. She always poured them into the trash and since no one in our house drank coffee, it seemed exotic but welcoming.
Then there were the milk bottles from Gates Dairy (I think that was the name). The glass bottles were made to fit in your hand perfectly and had a little cardboard cap that you could pull off and siphon off the cream from the top of the jug. Those were wonderful days, when the milkman left the milk jugs at the back door and mothers were actually up before it got hot, so the milk didn't spoil.
Nana loved white furniture, I think, because she painted her curio cabinet and dining room table white. Mother remembers that the paint was always chipping off but I only remember that it was a wonderful table that seated our family, my cousin's family, and Nana and Dale. We called grampa Dale because one of the older cousins started it, and he was always Dale thereafter.

There were two square pillars in the doorway between the living and dining rooms. They were also painted white. I have a picture of my father when he was two years old, sitting against one of the pillars and holding an orange in his hand. He's wearing the most darling little leather shoes and has a real impish grin on his face.

When we visited Nana and Dale on a Sunday, the lunch menu was predictable: mashed potatoes and gravy, peas, carrots, brussel sprouts (sometimes). If we stayed late, she served us Campbell's Cream of Tomato soup in her good ivory dishes that had two little handles on each bowl. We also got Ritz crackers to crumble up in our soup. Nana always acted like we were a burden and she was rather brusque, as I remember. In any event, I always steered clear of her while we were there. I got on much better with Dale because he was funny and made us laugh. He liked children and I don't think Nana did. The one time I was left alone with her I was terrified. She was very sweet though, and told me that when she was a little girl in school, the boys used to call her Kitty which made her furious. And that one little vignette was the only thing I remember about her telling me anything personal. Ever.
But I loved to listen to Nana rip through the Beer Barrel Polka on the piano. When she would play for Dale as he played his violin, I came alive. It was always a disappointment when she stopped.

Oh, there was the sewing room with the interesting lineoleum on the floor and the little half bath to the side. There wasn't enough room to even turn around in there. I was fascinated by the overpowering smell of Listerine that emanated from a bottle of the yellow stuff that sat on the back of the sink. More than once, I tried to taste it, but I couldn't keep it in my mouth because it burned.

Nana had a wonderful old fashioned bedroom suite: a three-quarter size poster bed with matching dresser, bedside table, and a little black rocking chair with a woven seat. She also kept a large antique pitcher and bowl with red roses painted on the side of it. What I loved most about Nana's room was that there was a walk-through closet that went between her room and the guest room where we kids slept. I always got the trundle bed bottom and slept near the floor. I remember worrying that the door to the closet would burst open and a ghost or ghoul--or my brother--would rush at me.

At night, I'd feel my way along the wall to the bathroom upstairs. I can still see it in my mind's eye. What was truly arresting was Dale's "Holy Nellies" that hung on the back of the door during the day. What is a Holy Nellie? Feet pajamas with mittens and an attached hat, made from white flannel by my mother. Dale must have looked like a giant bunny rabbit in those.

The back yard held hydrangeas and hosta lillies. I have five hosta plants in the front of my house, trying to take hold after being transplanted into the hard, dry earth. They are descendents from Nana's plants. I carried them in a large basin from New York to Indiana, then to Washington, and down to California. Amazing that they've lived this long. I also have a descendent from Nana's Christmas Cactus. Mother had a huge plant that she propagated from Nana's plant, but when we left New York last year, she gave it to someone else. I managed to make off with a little slip of it because I can't bear to see part of the family history die out.

Nana was a short, buxom lady who always wore stockings, black shoes, and an apron. When she hugged me, I would be suffocated in her soft, ample bosom. She smelled of talcum powder. I could see healing scratches on her calves from where Smoky scratched down her legs as she came down the stairs in the morning. Smoky was a snit of a longhair cat. Why she tolerated him, I don't know. But she loved him.

So as I packed up Nana's serving dishes, I remember the mountains of mashed potatoes, the gravy boat, the tomato soup, the side buffet with her nice dishes on it, and the curio cabinet with her glass cat collection in it. Her dishes symbolized all that a woman was to be back then: a good cook, hostess, support for her husband, mother.
Good memories. Rich past. I'm fortunate, indeed.