Nana, nonie, gramma, nonna, grandma, nanny, gran, we all have one, and in some instances with enough time and never enough wisdom, become one. During the course of a lifetime some of us aid in the creation of Nana’s. We do this by producing little images of our self—our mothers really. Once this happens your hard earned independence, and knowing a thing or two about life evaporates in an inhale or the instant your mother cross the threshold of your home.
Our little dears are an open invitation for the grandmother to visit, to storm the gates and to take refuge. Some take over, others are subtle in their tactics. I come from Latin stock and there is nothing subtle about my mom or nana as my kids call her. Of course their love for her is deep; it’s tall and wide like of one of Yosemite’s Sequoia’s. Their arms open wide, their smiles wider, jubilation untold as she enters my sanctuary. I, on the other hand consider a spa retreat or the FBI Witness Relocation and Protection Program and a new identity.
In our case Nana travels by plane to reach us because we don’t share the same zip code. Our family, as our nana, is not typical. Norman Rockwell we are not. But as Barney, the purple Dinosaur sings “families come in different shapes and sizes.” She is reminiscent of a different time, age having nothing to do with who she is. If she were not a grandmother she would likely run a clip joint called Tallulah’s on the docks somewhere. Her patrons, mostly thugs and long shore men, would affectionately call her Knuckles. Yanni definitely would not be found on the jukebox at Tallulah’s.
I picked Mom at the airport. She walked through baggage claim looking neat and compact in her Chico’s Jean ensemble, matching and coordinated. A ray of hope peeks through my gloom, perhaps I think to myself, she has left her rubber gloves and assorted cleaning paraphernalia at home and is here only to visit. She looks good, shiny even, not a hair out of place nor does it move despite the winds blowing a gale.
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