Nana

by Marguerite K.A. Petersen
Page 2

Eventually my father got his promotion at work. He was no longer to be the foreman of the lumber yard but had been chosen to work in the office as a salesman. His increased salary meant that along with his Veteran's loan, we would finally be able to afford to buy a house. There was much hunting and much turning down of inappropriate houses; this one was too far to the nearest school; this one too far from the buses which we counted on to get around the city as we didn't have a car; this one too expensive; this one not big enough; this one had too many repairs; but always they were looking for a house that would have room for all of us, including Nana.

Finally, a house that seemed perfect was found, worked on and moved in to. Layers of wallpaper had to be pealed from the walls and fresh paint applied. The bathroom and kitchen needed to be remodeled but that would be a much more extensive project and would have to wait. My school which I would be attending in just a few months, was only two blocks away. I was delighted to have a whole room to myself and the bed and chest of drawers that my father built seemed to me the most perfect in the world. At last I could give up the baby crib I had been sleeping in until now. My brother also had his own room and I was not even disturbed that his was upstairs and thus closer to Nana, such was my joy at having a room of my own.

Nana had the big front room upstairs. It was at the far end of the hall and we were expressly forbidden to bother her unless we knocked first. Her room was a delight to young eyes and hearts. Upon entering her room we were deluged by bits and pieces of furniture from an older era. Victorian loveseat, ancient lamps, doilies on everything and dim pink light. Nana always said that harsh electric lights were uncomplimentary to an older woman. It gave a softness to the room that was an echo of the softness of the woman who lived there. A hand-crocheted bedspread covered her bed, treadle sewing machine and huge old floor model radio hid in the corner where the slanting roof brought the ceiling down too low for her to walk. A big old comfortable sofa-rocker dominated the room. Beside it, a many legged end table was littered with bits of sewing, crocheting, tatting, and many books. Her knitting bag, overflowing with projects, sat on the floor beside the chair. An ancient floor lamp hovered behind and above the table and the chair.

My parents were busy people and through the years, I spent more time with my Nana than with anyone else. She was the one who watched, entranced and appreciative while I danced to the music from the radio, imagining I was a ballerina. She was the one who listened to me for hours on end while I talked about all my hopes and dreams and school and friends while she patiently ironed the family's clothing. She was the one who took care of my brother and I while our parents went out at night to their lodge meetings. She was the one who stayed with us when they went on weekend conventions and she was the one who always knew my deepest secrets.

I never knew much about her background. Nana hardly ever talked about her life except for her childhood. She mentioned her father a lot but no one else. It was years before I even knew anything about her husband, my grandfather, and even then I didn't learn much. It was simply not a topic for conversation either with my Nana or my mother. I thought for years that Nana had three children. I only learned about the fourth many years later. She was the eldest and died at eighteen of pneumonia and had been retarded. There was my mother, who I assumed was the eldest, then my aunt, who was the black sheep of the family and who never came around except when she was about to be married. This was frequently as she married seven times. Then there was my uncle who came back once after getting out of the Air Force and lived with us for a few months before moving back east to Toronto. We never heard much from him after that.

Once when I was 10 years old, a strange man came to the door and asked to see his "honey." I had raced to the door to open it before my brother and I was quite frightened by this disheveled looking individual who smelled of alcohol. I called my parents to the door and my brother and I were told to take our dinners up to our rooms. We found out years later that this stranger was our grandfather who we had been told had died when our mother was 12 years old. Obviously he was very much alive although not doing very well.

Through all of this, my Nana remained a warm, funny and loving person. She never complained and she never told us of her past or any pain she had experienced.

Many a time, lonely, confused, bewildered by my parents behavior and needing a place of comfort, I found myself at her door knocking softly and waiting for her to open the door or say "Come in child." I would enter and there she would be, sitting in that big chair, her knee stockings down around her ankles and fuzzy slippers on her feet which were propped up on her footstool. She would sometimes have on a robe but most times she wore a flowered housedress. She always looked comfortable and complete. She would look at me over her bifocals and say, "Yes? What can I do for you?" and I would rush to her, sit on the floor, my head in her lap and pour out my story. She always listened.

I was born Marguerite Kathleen Anne McCrindle on the Summer Solstice of 1944. I suffered the indiginity of several nicknames until I settled on "Marg" while in college. After college, marriage, working as a secretary for several years, raising three children, I found myself unemployed and to fill the long days, I returned to an early love, writing. Currently the author of one finished novel, I am working on 4 others while at the same time turning out poetry on a regular basis; some published, many not. I continue to enjoy writing, family, cyber friends and working for an ISP. I survive.