Tuesday, February 22, 2005
I REMEMBER NANA
(read at Mildred Wilke’s funeral at the age of 99)
I remember Nana on Satyr Hill Road...
---where she stood working in her steamy kitchen with the pressure cooker, and the whistling tea kettle,
---where sun streamed in through the dining room window making rainbows in the cut glass vase that stood in the middle of the dining room table amid piles of freshly cut homemade noodles set out to dry. (I used to sneak in and eat a few; they tasted far better raw than they ever did in the soup.)
---where dessert was tapioca.
---where Christmas meant Glass Wax stencils in the big picture window and little marshmallow and gumdrop snowmen standing in cotton snow; and Easter was brightly colored tulips made form died eggshells and pipe cleaners. (How did she get the egg out without breaking the shell anyway?)
---where she taught me to recognize the call of the bobwhite and how to do big cross stitches on cloth stretched in an embroidery hoop.
---where the dog got hit with the newspaper if he left the property.
---where she cut her toe in the lawn mower,
---where she sewed, hooked rugs, and cut up old coats to magically transform them into braided rugs.
---where she dressed in hat and gloves every Sunday for mass, no matter how hot it was in those days before air conditioning.
---where the wooden crucifix that now hangs in my upstairs hallway, hung over her bed,
---where there were horseshoe games and crab feasts in the back yard and I could visit my grandmother everyday, not just on Sundays and holidays, because she lived right nextdoor.
---where I learned from her one of the most important lessons in life when I heard her lament the fact that she had been wanting to bake someone some homemade bread, but hadn’t gotten around to it and now he was dead. (May we all remember to do for our loved ones while they are still with us.)
I also remember Nana at Loch Raven Village
---where she started a new life, independently able to walk or ride the bus to stores, countless bowling leagues, to Sunday mass, of course, and even all the way to Catonsville.
---where trivet and spoon collections adorned the walls and African violets flourished.
---where the crucifix still hung over her bed
---where she hung a huge poster sized business calendar with big squares in which she could write everybody’s birthdays and anniversaries so as not to forget them.
---where the kitchen was always uncomfortably warm, but just the right temperature for raising homemade bread.
---where grace before meals ended with “God bless the cook,” or sometimes, “Name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, whose arms are longest gets the most.”
---where dessert was still tapioca.
---where the Christmas tree was silver and decorated with homemade sequined ornaments which are now owned by some of us, and a Santa ringed in colored blinking lights hung on the wall.
---where wisdom was dispensed about such things as throwing spilt salt over your shoulder and who’s at the door when your fork falls on the floor.
---where she became a great grandmother and matriarch of four generations for many years.
---where she baby sat for Fran, and later Matthew, Justin, and Shelly.
---from where she wrote me many letters when I was in the Peace Corps in Korea, and later many letters to Seattle when Mike and Beth Moved out there.
---from where she came to Silver Spring to my apartment to visit me and take a trip to the Smithsonian because she had always wanted to see the Hope Diamond. (It was during that visit that I was amazed to see her down on her knees in prayer before she went to bed. I didn’t think people did that anymore.)
---where she embroidered us tablecloths. (Mine is the one we use for Christmas brunch.)
---where she used a CB radio to listen in on the police and determine when it was safe to go out.
---where she grew old, and her bones and hearing gave out, but not her sense of humor.
Finally, I remember Nana at Stella Marris
---where African violets still flourished in her window.
---where she graciously welcomed all visitors, especially those bearing gifts of crab soup.
---where she proudly showed off the view form her window and the view of Loch Raven Reservoir from the lounge window, but where she never had anything good to say about the food.
---where she shared the news of visits or calls from her children and grandchildren, and where she ended visits with the request, “Next time come when you can stay a little longer.”
---where she participated in the garden therapy conducted by Mom’s garden club.
---where during one visit when we asked her if she knew that we were involved in the Gulf War, said that she had heard that, and then commented, “ I never understood why they have wars anyway!” (Why do we?) Her comment caused us to reflect on just how many wars she had seen in her near century of life.
---where, in the most recent years she became less animated, and had fewer interests, but never stopped going to Sunday mass.
When she could no longer go to mass, she went to be with the Lord.
She loved God. She loved us. And we loved her.
I remember Nana on Satyr Hill Road...
---where she stood working in her steamy kitchen with the pressure cooker, and the whistling tea kettle,
---where sun streamed in through the dining room window making rainbows in the cut glass vase that stood in the middle of the dining room table amid piles of freshly cut homemade noodles set out to dry. (I used to sneak in and eat a few; they tasted far better raw than they ever did in the soup.)
---where dessert was tapioca.
---where Christmas meant Glass Wax stencils in the big picture window and little marshmallow and gumdrop snowmen standing in cotton snow; and Easter was brightly colored tulips made form died eggshells and pipe cleaners. (How did she get the egg out without breaking the shell anyway?)
---where she taught me to recognize the call of the bobwhite and how to do big cross stitches on cloth stretched in an embroidery hoop.
---where the dog got hit with the newspaper if he left the property.
---where she cut her toe in the lawn mower,
---where she sewed, hooked rugs, and cut up old coats to magically transform them into braided rugs.
---where she dressed in hat and gloves every Sunday for mass, no matter how hot it was in those days before air conditioning.
---where the wooden crucifix that now hangs in my upstairs hallway, hung over her bed,
---where there were horseshoe games and crab feasts in the back yard and I could visit my grandmother everyday, not just on Sundays and holidays, because she lived right nextdoor.
---where I learned from her one of the most important lessons in life when I heard her lament the fact that she had been wanting to bake someone some homemade bread, but hadn’t gotten around to it and now he was dead. (May we all remember to do for our loved ones while they are still with us.)
I also remember Nana at Loch Raven Village
---where she started a new life, independently able to walk or ride the bus to stores, countless bowling leagues, to Sunday mass, of course, and even all the way to Catonsville.
---where trivet and spoon collections adorned the walls and African violets flourished.
---where the crucifix still hung over her bed
---where she hung a huge poster sized business calendar with big squares in which she could write everybody’s birthdays and anniversaries so as not to forget them.
---where the kitchen was always uncomfortably warm, but just the right temperature for raising homemade bread.
---where grace before meals ended with “God bless the cook,” or sometimes, “Name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, whose arms are longest gets the most.”
---where dessert was still tapioca.
---where the Christmas tree was silver and decorated with homemade sequined ornaments which are now owned by some of us, and a Santa ringed in colored blinking lights hung on the wall.
---where wisdom was dispensed about such things as throwing spilt salt over your shoulder and who’s at the door when your fork falls on the floor.
---where she became a great grandmother and matriarch of four generations for many years.
---where she baby sat for Fran, and later Matthew, Justin, and Shelly.
---from where she wrote me many letters when I was in the Peace Corps in Korea, and later many letters to Seattle when Mike and Beth Moved out there.
---from where she came to Silver Spring to my apartment to visit me and take a trip to the Smithsonian because she had always wanted to see the Hope Diamond. (It was during that visit that I was amazed to see her down on her knees in prayer before she went to bed. I didn’t think people did that anymore.)
---where she embroidered us tablecloths. (Mine is the one we use for Christmas brunch.)
---where she used a CB radio to listen in on the police and determine when it was safe to go out.
---where she grew old, and her bones and hearing gave out, but not her sense of humor.
Finally, I remember Nana at Stella Marris
---where African violets still flourished in her window.
---where she graciously welcomed all visitors, especially those bearing gifts of crab soup.
---where she proudly showed off the view form her window and the view of Loch Raven Reservoir from the lounge window, but where she never had anything good to say about the food.
---where she shared the news of visits or calls from her children and grandchildren, and where she ended visits with the request, “Next time come when you can stay a little longer.”
---where she participated in the garden therapy conducted by Mom’s garden club.
---where during one visit when we asked her if she knew that we were involved in the Gulf War, said that she had heard that, and then commented, “ I never understood why they have wars anyway!” (Why do we?) Her comment caused us to reflect on just how many wars she had seen in her near century of life.
---where, in the most recent years she became less animated, and had fewer interests, but never stopped going to Sunday mass.
When she could no longer go to mass, she went to be with the Lord.
She loved God. She loved us. And we loved her.
