THE ESSAY

By Danelle Carvell

                                                        
                                                     

My Nana is on the left. I'm the sad-looking one eating a cookie. 

In October of 1992, I wrote an essay about my grandmother for my first college class, English 101.  I came across that essay recently while digging through some boxes in the basement. My teacher wrote some nice things in red ink on my final draft and she gave me an "A".  It's funny how reading something you wrote 18 years ago brings back all the joys, fears, and frustrations you felt at the time.

Time passes so quickly.  It truly is amazing how we move through life one day at a time, experiencing so many events and the emotions that come with.  Milestones like moving out of your parents house, a wedding and a first pregnancy soon become memories that bring forth bits and pieces of past conversations, past days that took place in past seasons.  Memories flood into my mind like a film with its scenes spliced together, not in any particular order.  Good memories and bad.  Laughter and tears.  Joy and regret.

When I wrote the paper about my grandma, I had been married to my first husband for five years.  But the essay takes me back even farther to the months just before my wedding, the summer of '87.  That was the year I got to know my grandmother, (who died a few years ago at the age of 102).   I also learned some things about myself and the person I wanted to become.

My grandmother left a legacy of hard work, unselfish giving, and the ability to put others needs before her own.  I wouldn't trade those months of living with her for anything.  She showed me the kind of woman I should be.  But it took years for me to grow into that person. Still, I'm grateful to her for saying, "You just come," without even thinking about it.  That's my grandma's legacy, and we should all be so willing and quick to help others without a thought about how it might affect us.  Nana lived by faith.  She did the right thing and then trusted God that it would work out.  That's the kind of woman I want to be.  I want to be like my Nana.

                                                                         NANA

She's my mother's mother.  I call her Nana.  Her hair is snow white, her skin wrinkled and pale, except for an age spot on her forehead and a galaxy of freckles on her hands, arms, and chest.  Her small brown eyes are partially covered by sagging lids, and her round glasses make them appear even smaller.

Nana walks with a limp because her left knee is constantly sore from arthritis.  She moves slowly, twisting her hips as she walks.  Going up and down stairs and getting out of chairs are difficult tasks for her.  Many things are difficult for this 85-year-old woman, and it wasn't until I lived with her for three months that I realized how frustrating it is to grow old.

It was the summer of 1987, several months before my wedding, when I moved in with Nana because my parents were selling the house that I had called home for twenty years.  "It will only be for a few months," I explained to her on the phone.  She didn't even think about it.  "You just come," she said.

Nana is known for her selfless generosity.  She thinks of herself last, she always did.  She stands at the stove in her apron while everyone eats, making sure there's enough to go around.  Then later, when all had their fill, she sits down and nibbles on the leftovers.  Every time I come to Nana's house, she offers me something to eat. That's her way of loving.  Now she was offering me a home.  I saw her as an angel of mercy, always willing to help and expecting nothing in return.

After living with her for several weeks, I saw a more human side to her.  She wasn't an angel, she was a sweet old woman who struggled to get through each day.  Her days were filled with never-ending tasks, and she tackled them slowly.  It took her a long time to hang up a load of wash.  I offered to help her, but she always insisted on doing it herself.

Through the white lace curtains of the kitchen window I watched her drop the wash basket onto the porch and shuffle slowly down the cement steps, hugging the banister all the way.  In the time it took her to reach the grass, I could have jumped those three steps and had several pieces of wash on the line.  I felt guilty watching her struggle, but I knew her work ethic.  She had to do it on her own.  Several times a day she would collapse into a chair and catch her breath. 

Nana did let me help in the kitchen.  It was the only place she felt comfortable receiving help, maybe because she could give something in return, a meal for my efforts.  Whenever she turned on the wrong burner, I discreetly corrected it.  She was so hard on herself when she did something wrong or forgot something.  "Oh Grandma," she would say in a tone of disgust.  Then I'd try to make her feel better by saying, " I do things like that all the time."

I got to prove my point one day while I was preparing to set the table for dinner.  As I lifted a stack of plates from the cupboard, the top three plates slid forward and shattered across the countertop.  "Oh well," I said.  "These things happen."  Nana seemed annoyed by my lightheartedness, although she didn't say anything.  But her face grew tense with agitation as we picked up the broken pieces.

I realized later that those plates were part of her only set of china.  They might have been a wedding gift and they probably had sentimental value.  But she bit her tongue and took the loss.  Although her disappointment was hard to hide, she valued me more than the plates, and Nana knew when to hold her words.  Kindness was the rule for everything she did, and hurting someone was never worth making a point.

I tried to help Nana as much as I could that summer, but between working and planning a wedding, it was easy to neglect her needs.  But I never neglected to set her hair in rollers every week.  That was important to her, and I enjoyed doing it.  One morning as I spread the rollers, clips, hair gel, combs and brushes across my workspace, Nana limped across the kitchen into the bathroom.  After about 15 minutes she hobbled back into the kitchen looking agitated and exhausted, her white hair dripping wet.

She took a deep breath and dropped into the chair in front of me. Then she held her face in her palms and cried.  I didn't know why she was crying.  I had never seen her cry before and it shocked me.  I stood behind her, not knowing what to say.

"An old woman hanging over a tub to wash her hair," she said between sobs.

I put my hand on her shoulder and said, "Nana, I would be glad to wash your hair for you.  I just assumed that you wanted to do it because you never asked me."

"That's my problem," she said.  "I don't speak up and ask."

I thought about all the times she had hung over that tub and how she must have struggled just to wash her hair.  Why hadn't I realized that she needed my help?  She patted my hand.  "I'm sorry," she said and wiped her nose with the cloth hankie she always carried.  "It's just frustrating sometimes to be an old lady."

As I wrapped her thin white hair around the pink curlers, I thought about all the fussing I had been doing in the past month, fussing about wedding invitations, flowers and things that really didn't matter.  I felt selfish.  And I felt lucky to be young.

I learned a lot about Nana that summer.  Living with her helped me to understand her.  She's a capable woman, but she's too old to do everything herself.  And even though she puts on a brave front of self-reliance, there's a part of her that's begging for help and I'm learning to be more aware of that.  I've come to realize how much she needs me, and I'm more attentive to her needs now.

Why is it so hard for people to ask for help?  God created us to need each other and yet we have such a hard time seeking and accepting help.  Self-reliance and independence must have been part of the legacy that was handed down to my grandma.    But not all legacies are good, and God lets us know when we need to make changes.  Since that summer, Nana is learning to speak up and ask.