Grannys, Nannys, Nanas, Mamies and All Things Such

I have most likely written similar as to that I write here now. It ain’t like it is a secret or something that I shy from espousing at every opportunity. It is but a simple truth that I preach often and think about even more: Grandmothers are the greatest things ever created. Of course, this maxim of mine comes with a condition of sorts, I never knew my great grandmothers, so there is a chance that some can take exception, but I am fully prepared to debate even that: Great grandmothers, probably had their hands full dealing with their own grandchildren.

I was fortunate. I grew up in a small town. Granny lived next door. Nanny but a combination of half blocks, full blocks and an alley away. Each were as different as they were the same. Their backgrounds shared little commonality; Their role, of being among the most steadying influences in my life, were in complete harmony. There are few perks in life that rival that of being able to pit a grandmother against a parent; None match that of being able to play one grandmother against another. Speaking firsthand, I would testify under oath that my grandmothers had grown tiresome of some of the shit that came with their children but when it came to the grandbabies, there was no shortage of tolerance in their understanding and unyielding support.

I spent more time with Granny, as she was the one who lived next door. She also had but a single child. Nanny had four children. Each child, be it Granny’s or Nanny’s, are a story of their own. They had a lot of similarities. Yet, other than the time in which they were raised, there are non similarities that I can recall as being of note. I will never reconcile the happiness that must have accompanied the early stages of Buddy’s and Betty’s marriage with the memories that I can recall most clearly. Rob was mom’s favorite. I suppose I was dads. I know Jamie was mine. For what it is worth, Rob is still her favorite and Jamie remains the baby. For good or bad though, I am the one she is stuck with. Life plays tricks such as these. Regardless, and through no fault that I would acknowledge of being totally of her own, it is regretful that this mom wasn’t bestowed the adulation that I hold for my own grandmothers. She needs her a surrogate or a puppy, though I would oppose subjecting the puppy to such.

 

Granny had high aspirations for me. I think she would have been disappointed in many ways; Proud in a few others. She had a determination in her belief of the course that I should chart. No, make that a determination in the course she would chart for me. My love of the written word is owed to her. Same goes for my appreciation of things worldly. Ditto for my occasional sense of formality, decorum and, to an extent, decency. She kept a container by her bedside table. I still have both. In the container there was a magnifying glass, a book we would be sharing at the time, mostly her reading to me and a deck of Old Maid cards among other things. We played a thousand times if we played once. She never won. Grandmothers are like that.

Granny was one of those that held form to the adage: A place for everything and everything in its place. Granny was rigid in her view of the world but was also too damn intelligent and perceptive to not see the truth that was. In only the most well intentioned of ways, she swept much away under the proverbial rug. I loved Granny. I am who I am, for better or worse, in large part to the influence of her.

Nanny was Granny from a different environment. There wasn’t the spit and polish, there was just a warmth and appreciation in each visit; Visits of which that I have never found a suitable replication. You could talk to Nanny about, you know, things. I have at times shared with her secrets and occurrences that are now, known only by me. Nanny was every bit an equal to Granny. In every way. They talked often on the phone. That thought comforts me yet today.Nanny was a product of what life dealt. Granny, or so I think, was a more a product of a more clearly and definitely, a more certain, course through life. Nanny wasn’t fooled by the curve balls of life. Granny only swung at those that hung.

Speaking of curveballs, and maybe by the time I figure out where I am going with this, it will all come back. Bob Gibson was a childhood hero of mine. At his best I know of very few pitchers of rival. Anyways, there was a book that you could buy on the magazine rack at that time. Or maybe I checked it out at the library. Probably the latter. This was probably 1967. I was probably 9. The book was more coloring book in style than reading. A lot of drawings. Part of the book talked about how to throw a curve ball. To do it well is hard enough. To begin learning how to do so, alone without a catcher and a with a backdrop suiting whatever the location, you tended to pay attention to what the book offered. Practice makes perfect. Disciplined practice even more so.

I was active as a nine year old. I was a pretty good athlete as well. I had better than average coordination, but I also had a really good right arm. Though the limitation of distance at 61 is an obvious deterrent, I still have great faith in my right arm in all things shooting a hoop or throwing a rock. I did a lot of each in the days that spanned the Reign of the Grandmothers. I got pretty good at both.

I like to think that what I am now going to recount, my first hard breaking curveball, is actually as it happened. I know for damn sure the utter amazement as the ball dropped sharply and noticeably to its left is just as real today as it was actual at that time. The pitch missed the temporary backdrop but landed squarely in my memory and has stayed with me since that time. Matter of fact, I have thrown that same pitch in my mind at least 10 times in the writing of this paragraph. Few curveballs in life have provided such joy as did this one.

Granny, with her “That shouldn’t be that way” approach and Nanny with her “What is it this time”, were thrown more than their fair share of curves. Most were handled with the similarity that a well thrown curve ball will come to nestle into the mitt of the catcher. In the grandmothers’ case, the ones that caught remained just so. For lack of a better sequence of words beginning with the letter P, there was a persevering patience that accompanied each. Trust me, that required a lot of P&P from both. At 61, I think it is but a product of age and in a belief that there is a wisdom that has been forged with the passing of such time.

As I have sorted through much of my past today, against a thoughtful reflection of wishful hope for all of the grandmothers of others, there is much that I have come across that keeps alive the memories of each. I have reminders everywhere of both Granny and Nanny. Those attached to Granny take on a variety of forms, but most are a collectket trinketable. Not quite a collectible but far removed from being but a trinket. In Nanny’s case, I rely on a lamp, an ashtray and framed print of White Hall.

The lamp sat on the table which held the ashtray. The picture hung to the left. Her chair was the only on that side of the room. It was the focal point. I would sit on the couch opposite and we would talk. The TV would be going but the conversation was real. Picking her wart, bouncing her leg, while beating the cigarette repeatedly in the ashtray, was a routine that I many times will mimic today. I can’t recreate that time, or the comfort afforded. I can remind myself of it with a mere switch of a lamp though. I loved Nanny. I am who I am, for better or worse, in large part to the influence of her.

Nana was wasn’t my grandmother. Matter of fact she was a nemesis at first, a good friend in the end. One of the best actually. When I called her in her Mayor’s office the day she became the Nana of a two and three year old, she initially thought I was William O. A scar on my being that remains to this day. I can fault her for thinking I was pulling a prank, but William O? …. (lol of course).

 

The only story I want to share of Nana as it relates to her first grandchildren is one of her and Adam. Though Dad and Ann lived in a big house, the bathrooms were woefully inadequate. The lower bathroom, not much bigger than a closet. To get to it you had to go down two stairs. On one of the nights the Adam and Holley stayed with them, (Yes Paula and I used to be afforded “date nights”) Adam was still small enough and we are all young enough that he was no problem to carry. He couldn’t walk of course.

In this instance he needed to do number one. Nana dutifully carried and placed him on the potty. Adam, sitting there in the cramped bathroom with but his Nana remarked: “Nana, I can’t do this with you watching”. Nana’s reply: “Ok, just close your eyes”. He did so and then he did so, and all was well. This moment was Ann at her best: Sharp, quick, intelligent and resourceful. I loved Ann. I am who I am, for better or worse, in part to the influence of her. She sure put up with her share of shit.

The importance of Nana as it relates to all things grandmothers is owed to the evolution of our relation, one that spanned over 40 years. As I said, we started out as adversaries, became allies and in the end were friends. When I think of young parents with a newborn today, a putting it in one end and seeing what comes out the other bundle of joy, there is only one relation: The child is totally dependent on the parent. Fast forward to when the parent is forty and the child is now 20. The relations have changed. Fast forward multiples of twenty, and if you are fortunate enough the relationship between a mother at 80, with a child of 60, is one that has transcended all of the traditional roles associated with parenthood. Throw in a few grandchildren here and there and you have the stuff life is made of.

I once kinda sorted dated a lady who became a grandmother at 35. She was too outwardly beautiful in her youth to qualify as a grandmother, but nonetheless a good one she became. I have seen any number of monikers attached to those who are blessed with the opportunity to be a grandmother. Grannies, Nannies, Nanas, Mamies, etc., I have seen em all. And though a grandfather I can only hope to be, I sit in marvelous wonder of the bond that I have only seen developed between that of a grandmother and her grandchild. Pay attention to the pairs of these that are but strangers. If you closely observe you will see what I mean.

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