As one of thirty grandchildren on each side of my family,
time with grandparents who lived a few hours away was a precious
commodity. It was also precious in the
sense of short supply. While I treasured
the time I did have, there were always cousins who lived closer, who had more
time, who could just drop in.
I missed that. Until
my first marriage. While there were many
not-so-good things about that relationship, one tremendous bonus was my new
paternal grandmother-in-law. Nana. Not only was her home in Toronto readily accessible from my downtown
office by subway, we just clicked.
She was a tiny lady, and already about 90 years old when I
first knew her, living fairly independently in her own apartment in a
retirement residence. I visited her
often – usually at least once every couple of weeks – and we enjoyed long
conversations about her life as a young woman, and particularly about the time she
spent waiting for her would-be husband to return from World War I.
She had postcards they’d sent each other – linen ones –
which they’d each kept for over seventy years.
A talented artist in many areas, she still had some of the fine
needlework she’d done through the years, many paintings, engraved silver handed
down through her family, and a wondrous set of china she had hand-painted
herself as a young bride.
Nana's favourite meal was Kentucky Fried Chicken, and at my
visits, I’d show up with a 3-piece meal for us to share, and she’d have jello
made – whatever flavour most appealed to her that day.
We regularly ate fried chicken, french fries,
coleslaw, and jello off that hand-painted china.
And it was marvelous.
One day in March of 1990, I got a call that Nana was in and
out of consciousness and wouldn’t last much longer. I was about six months pregnant with my first
child at the time, and hadn’t spent quite as much time with Nana as I had
previously. But I sure moved quickly to
get to her side. We were told that while
she wasn’t conscious, she could likely hear and sense us, and encouraged to
talk to her. I did. I told her how much I loved her, and how much
our time together meant to me. She died
while I held her hand.
When I divorced my first husband, that engraved silver which
had been handed down left my home and went with him.
I don’t know what happened to it beyond
that.
But my day was made recently when
that magnificent hand-painted china came my way via my own daughter about
thirty years after her passing.
As I
unpacked each precious piece, I could feel her with me.
I could taste that chicken and jello, and
hear her stories.
That hundred-year-old
china holds pride of place in my china cabinet – and gave me a great excuse to
finally get one – and she’s in my mind each time I look at it or use a
piece.
What’s the lesson here?
A simple one – value the time you have.
My greatest regret on the day I got that call was that I had fallen off
in my visits with Nana.
I can never get
those back.
But I firmly believe that
her spirit is with me, and that she has greatly enjoyed watching my own
children – the great-grandchildren she never knew in life – grow and prosper.
Nana, I still miss you.
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