Lessons from Nana

Since the adults in this story are no longer around, I feel that it is safe for me to post this story and not worry about them getting into trouble. I am also free to post this since the people who owned the establishment are also long gone. However, these people had such an impact on my life that they will always be with me. Stories like the one I am about to share will be in my memory to recall for the remainder of my time.

My Nana, Nana for she decided when my oldest brother was born that she was too young to be a Grandma, was a loving, caring, but tough as nails little old Polish woman. She took no gruff from us or anyone else. She was the first of her family to be born in this country. Her sisters had all been born in Poland with one of them having remained behind when the family first moved here. Nana and Papa went through the Great Depression. During the first part of their marriage, they were separated while my Papa served in the Army. They made it through a lot. They eventually bought property and built a home to raise my Mom and Aunt. Like so many of their generation they had a toughness to them, and they used any given moment to teach a lesson.

Nana knew how to be tough and teach in a unique way. I can only remember one time when she laid a hand on me, and, well……….. I deserved it. She found ways to get you to think about what you did or said in order to get you to change – and guilt. Being from a Polish, Catholic family guilt was used as a tool to teach quite often.

I am not sure if children ever hear the guilt line at dinner like we heard. I do know that many of my friends heard similar lines while growing up. Nana really knew how to cook, and her meals were outstanding. I credit her with my ability to whip together dinner from scraps. Be that as it may, a kid does not always feel like eating no matter how good the food (I was going to list things like golumpki, but you have to be Polish to get it). I can remember sitting at the table with a plate of food in front of me. Being the grandchild of immigrants, it could be used against you at the drop of the hat. I would complain that I wasn’t hungry. If I said this in front of Nana, I would then get a list of relatives that were starving back in Poland. The nastiest look I ever received was when I asked if I could package it and ship the food to them. I saw those eyes stare at me – I ate.

I know my cousins in Poland did suffer. They were growing up in the time of Communism. I can remember all the care packages that Nana and others would put together to send to them. I would hear the stories. Growing up I feared for them, and due to the number of times I heard about their lack of food, I never spoke back about eating after that.

Nana also taught me to never get cocky and talk smack. As I have written before, I grew up in a rural area with a small village. During second grade, my Church School took place on Saturday mornings. The classes were held in the basement of the church. Afterwards, I would walk the two blocks to the family bar. I loved being able to do this. I felt so grown-up to be allowed to do this. I also loved the bar. It is a huge stone building from the 1840s. It has a great basement that, with a child’s imagination, could hold robbers, critters, and ghosts. Even as an adult when I cleaned in the mornings the ghosts would still pop into my head when I went downstairs. I also loved this place because this is where the family lived when my Mom was very young. Between the upper floors and an apartment off to the side, Nana’s family lived and grew.

The bar had a kitchen and offered lunches. Nana was one of the cooks. She would work the weekends and many other times. I believe her potato salad is still served. So I would walk over from church and sit in the kitchen having lunch until Nana finished her shift. Every weekend my cousin, Uncle John, would come in to say hello and ask me what I wanted to drink. Being a cocky little seven-year old, I always requested a beer. I received a coke. This happened every week until – that one day.

I came in and sat down. Uncle John came in and greeted me. He had a deep friendly voice. I responded back a cheerful hello with my request for a beer. Nana and Uncle John looked at each other, totally unnoticed by me. He went back out to the bar and returned with, yep, a beer. My eyes must have popped out of my head for the two of them started laughing. Then Nana spoke up with, you asked for it – you drink it. I stared at the glass afraid to touch it. I believe I ate half my lunch before even trying to lift it. I took a sip and requested a coke. I learned that day that one must be careful with being cocky and asking for things that they do not want.

The last lesson that comes to mind tonight is when I was eighteen. Like I said, Nana was a LITTLE, Polish woman. By the time I had reached my full height, she only came to my chest. I still obeyed and revered her, but I could still make mistakes. For the life of me, I cannot remember the conversation that we were having. I know it was serious, and I know I had done something to get her angry with me. However, there was something funny going on in my head as this short person was taking me down to size. I had a huge smirk on my face.

She stopped in mid-sentence to look at me. She froze. Slowly the words came out of her mouth. “Wipe that smirk off your face.” What happened next, I cannot explain. Something took over my body and made me do it. I swear it was not me. Even slower than her words had come out, my hand raised to my face. The back of my left palm reached across to the right corner of my smirk. My hand passed over my lips with my letting go of the smirk as the skin crossed. I let me hand down and stood there struggling not to have a smirk on my lips. That is until she reached up and smacked me.

I fell backwards more in shock than from pain. The smirk forever gone. Nana had never touched me in anger before, and now something I did brought her to a level that I had never seen. I learned that day that actions hurt just as much as words. Even more I learned how easy it is to hurt somebody you love so deeply. I learned a new type of sadness that day.

There are so many other lessons Nana taught me. She was there for us when my mom became a single mom. She gave advice, she gave support, and she gave love. I hope that I can teach lessons to my daughter, in different ways, to our daughter that will stick with her and give her cause to write about them some day. What about you – what lessons did you learn from adults other than your parents?

Thank you for meandering with me today.