Nanny’s life seemed simple when I stopped in to visit her on my way to or from college. I rarely called ahead because she was nearly always home - happy to make room around the modest arborite table that filled one end of her kitchen and “throw another potato in the pot”. Thinking back, I’ve no idea how she conjured such memorable food in such a tiny space – homemade brown bread, pork chops and turnip kraut, ham and scalloped potatoes – not to mention the never-ending stream of delicious cakes, cookies and squares.
It amazes me to recall how many people could sit comfortably around her small table. When my own family visited, there were at least 8 and often 10 or more, but somehow we never felt cramped or unwelcome. She popped up and down with such ease - filling, passing and clearing plates and teacups - we barely noticed the effort it must have taken to feed us all.
I especially loved spending time with her on my own, so would often sneak away from my university studies long enough to pass an evening with her. Invariably, we spent that time together drinking tea, eating sweets and talking non-stop over hard-fought games of Scrabble or cribbage. She was delighted she could so easily beat her college-educated granddaughter at Scrabble and gleefully recited the silly poetry of crib – “15 one, 15 two, 15 four and the rest don’t score” – while she "skunked" me.
Mostly, she didn't talk about herself much when we were together, though I asked enough questions to learn she’d moved to the “Boston states” to live with her sister when she was young and lied to a hiring manager to land her first job, telling him she knew how to operate a telephone (when she’d never so much as seen one) so she could work as a switch board operator. At the end of her first day on the job, she walked in the wrong direction for a block or more before she figured out how to turn and make her way against the stream of heavy commuter foot traffic to go in the right direction. Growing up in a tiny village in rural Nova Scotia, she’d had no opportunity to learn the basics of navigating busy city streets and sidewalks.
Though she mostly preferred to discuss my “doings”, she was also happy to share the products of her deep curiosity about the world. She had a particular interest in what we now call “alternative medicine” and made copious notes on various home remedies in a special section at the back of her recipe binder, which she'd occasionally pull out to discuss with me.
My mom tells me Nanny never said an unkind word about anyone and I can believe that since I never heard her utter one. It seemed her purpose in life was to care for others. She kept a daily journal for decades in which she recorded only two things consistently – the weather and the names of the people who mattered most to her.
And when she wasn’t caring for others, she was busy creating things. Knitting and crocheting were particular passions but she enjoyed other creative pursuits as well. I remember needlepoint, ceramic, and macramé projects, in addition to the dozens of baby outfits and afghans she produced over the years. She even took up acrylic painting later in her life, producing several lovely pieces that reflect a deep sense of place.
In retrospect, I realize that Nanny’s “simple” life was anything but. It was in fact a life filled to the brim with cooking, caring, and creativity. I wish there’d been time to know her better before she died. I suspect there’s much she could have taught me about living a happy, creative and purposeful life.
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