“Who is she?”, three year old Emily inquires. She is thumbing through an old photo album that I recently rescued from the cold recesses of our basement. She is pointing to a faded poloroid photo of my grandmother. “That’s my Nana.”, I say. Emily studies the photo. “Who is she?”, she whispers. Like a bursting dam, a rush of memories flood into my brain and I grasp for just the right words to explain to Emily who the woman in the photo is.
For most of my life, Nana lived alone in the house on Fifth street where she raised her three children. But she was never lonely. She was constantly surrounded by a warm and loving family. Every Sunday afternoon since before I was born the family gathered together to share supper at Nana’s house. The radio in the kitchen sang a cheery polka. And the smell of pot roast and mashed potatoes embraced me when I entered the home into her cozy sitting room where she kept her favorite green wicker rocking chair. A steaming apple pie cooled on the windowsill, waiting its turn at the feast. The ample meal started with a prayer and a toast to good health. When all of the assembled finished filling their bellies, the children would wander outside to play tag while the grownups reminisced over a hot cup of coffee.
Sunday was Nana’s day of rest. She dedicated her day to cooking, crocheting and cheering the Phillies to squeak out a win over the Mets. But from Monday through Saturday, Nana was always busy and her hands were never idle. She had a special gift for sewing and made all of her own clothes as well as much of ours. Nana learned this handy skill at the age of thirteen when she was forced to drop out of the eighth grade and take a job at the factory in order to contribute to the upkeep of her household. Nana had to walk two miles to work at six in the morning each day in order to earn a mere fifty cents a week. Nana told us that story often, not to complain, but merely to relate how things were and how things came to be.
When Nana was 17 she married a coal miner named Anthony Kozlusky. His family lived near Nana’s in the Lithuanian corner of town. Nana was not ready for marriage at such a young age and put it off for as long as she could. But her father was ready for one less mouth to feed in his house and that was that. Together, Nana and Tony built a home, a family and a life with all the troubles, struggles and joy that go with it. I never met my grandfather. He left Nana a young widow when he succumbed to coal miner’s asthma – black lung. Nana would need to raise her daughter and two sons on her own. From time to time, Nana spoke about Grandpa Tony with wet eyes.
When I was a baby, Nana married again. For several years she shared her home with the man we called Grandpa Ed. He was the only grandfather I ever knew and he made Nana happy. They grew grapes in their garden and made wine in the basement. They tended their one room country store where they sold lunch meat, canned goods and bread and where the neighbors gathered to gossip. They traveled together and took photos of each other smiling in some far away garden bursting with roses. But a few years later, Ed passed away as well and Nana was on her own again.
Independent, resourceful and sage, Nana reigned as the matriarch of our family for almost eighty five years. Her off spring sought her counsel and promised to follow her example. One time I asked Nana what I should do with my future. Her advice to me was simple: study hard, work hard and do good. I only hope I have done her proud.
When Nana wasn’t working, her favorite hobby was puttering about her garden. From the first dew drops of spring until the last leaf dropped in autumn, Nana tended the soil from dusk to dawn. It was her masterpiece. On one side of the house, Nana planted a neatly kept rainbow bed of flowers – crowded with brightly blooming Azaleas, Black Eyed Susan, Zinnias and more. On the other side, along the fence, she grew vegetables – cucumbers, scallions, green beans, potatoes, and tomatoes. Thousands of sweet scents and hundreds of delicious flavors sprang from her small patch of earth.
Because we lived so near to Nana, we enjoyed every day the benefits of her garden and the benefits of her love. She baked us zucchini bread and shared jars of homemade stewed tomatoes. She taught us to roll dough, to make cookies, to bake cakes and to polka dance. She spoiled us with hot chocolate overflowing with mini marsh mellows in the winter and Banana Split Sundays in the summer. She attended our school plays, basketball games and ballet recitals. She hugged me the day I graduated from high school and beamed at me when I received my college diploma.
Nana died the way she lived, with pride, strength and courage. Her three children, their spouses, and a half dozen grand children stood at her bed side and surrounded her with their love. We held hands, kissed Nana, and prayed together as we watched her soul slip out of her body to join the life that is yet to come. That moment was the most beautiful, the most powerful and the most tragic event in my life.
Nana never saw me graduate from law school. She didn’t attend my wedding. And she never met my beautiful children or celebrated their baptisms. Today when I think of Nana I feel happy and sad. I am happy to relive in my heart so many wonderful moments with her. But at the same time I am sad from missing her so much. But its OK, because a piece of her lives inside of me still and I take it with me wherever I go. When I look into Emily’s eyes, I can see a bit of Nana smiling back at me. Like her Nana, Emily is fiercely independent and self sufficient. She is also joyful and loving and smart. And she loves to admire pretty flowers blooming in the garden.
As I recover from my recollections, Emily smiles up at me. “She looks nice”, Emily declares. “She is very nice.”, I sigh. I hug Emily and settle in to tell her a bit more about our Nana.
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