Nana, 1923 - 2021

My grandmother died last week, four days short of her 98th birthday. 

She was, as the expression goes, a character. Passive-aggressive, argumentative, kind of irritable and bad-tempered, perpetually outraged, especially about politics (thanks Fox News), and a compulsive collector of old-lady collectibles, like Hummels and souvenir spoons and I don’t even know what else. 

She was also very talented. She could draw and paint and she had a beautiful singing voice, which she used only in church. She was devoutly Catholic and a born and bred Philadelphian, her entire life lived within a 20-block radius, including 60 years in the rowhouse that she bought with my grandfather in 1961. 

My grandmother was proud of her Irish heritage, proud of my grandfather’s service in the Army during World War 2, proud of his career as a supervisor at the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard, and proud of her tiny brick rowhouse with its itty-bitty backyard and its perfectly neat and organized rooms. I think she was proud of her children and grandchildren, too, but she didn’t say so explicitly. She loved us, though. She especially loved her great-grandchildren. I think it amazed and delighted her that she lived to see her oldest great-grandchild graduate from college and begin work for a major accounting firm. 

*****

We lived with my grandparents when I was really little. I don’t remember a lot about that time, other than that our living situation was a result of my parents’ very bad divorce. I never saw my father again and from what the people tell me, I was probably better off. 

I really loved my grandparents’ house. I remember that very well. It was a tiny brick rowhouse, as we have already established. You had to walk up two sets of concrete steps to get to the front door, which then led into a tiny tiny tiny vestibule with a hat stand and an umbrella stand, and three carpeted steps into the carpeted living room. The whole tiny house was carpeted, making it even cozier. Now, of course, a tiny rowhouse would pride itself on its original hardwood floors but in 1971, wall-to-wall carpet was considered plush and luxurious, and I was all for it. I was six, after all,. Six-year-olds spend most of their time on the floor, and thickly padded carpet made the floor much more comfortable. 

My grandparents’ house also had a console stereo, a color TV, a china cabinet filled with china and bric-a-brac, a finished basement that was my grandfather’s man cave before there even was such a thing as a man cave, and a huge storage pantry under the basement stairs, which my grandfather built. He built custom shelving throughout the house. The kitchen (yes even the kitchen was carpeted, but the kitchen carpet was a much thinner and and more serviceable fiber than the luxurious sculptured carpet in the living room and dining room) led out to a tiny two-level backyard that I wrote about here. I loved that backyard, especially the upper yard that adults either could not or would not climb up to. 

There were a lot of other things that I loved about that house. I loved the bathroom. It was tiny, like the rest of the house, with tiled floor and tile halfway up the walls, which were then wallpapered up to the ceiling. I think the wallpaper was floral print. There was a skylight in the ceiling. I don’t think they ever opened the skylight, but it seemed very special to me, a window in the ceiling. My grandparents had a Water Pik, and we weren’t allowed to play with it, but we did. The water that flowed from the bathroom sink faucet was always cold and clear. It was the best-tasting water, and I remember drinking Dixie cups full of it. 

My grandparents’ bedroom was furnished in heavy old-fashioned walnut furniture, a matching set with a large, low, dresser and a huge mirror, a tall dresser that my grandmother called “the highboy,” a wardrobe with a two-door cabinet on top and two drawers at the bottom, a double bed with a walnut headboard and frame, and silver-framed family pictures on the wallpapered walls. The dresser was dressed with a lace runner, on top of which were a silver mirror and hairbrush that never actually touched anyone’s hair, and at least a dozen perfume bottles. The only new things in that bedroom were the carpeting, and a valet chair that we would today probably describe as mid-century modern. We always wanted to sit on the thickly padded seat of that valet chair, and Nana always told us that it wasn’t a sitting chair, it was a clothes chair. This made no sense to us. It was one of those weird grown-up things that we just accepted. 

Granddad’s basement was finished with a linoleum floor and pre-fabricated panel walls and a drop ceiling and a bar that he built himself. There was a radio (for Phillies and Flyers games, not music) and a record player (for Johnny Cash) and an old couch. The paneled walls were covered with framed war memorabilia and family photos and sports pennants and goofy signs. Two that I remember really well: A Pennsylvania Dutch woman under the slogan “We grow too soon oldt and too late schmardt,” and a man downing a cocktail next to the slogan “Work: The Curse of the Drinking Class.” Nana gave me the “drinking class” sign a long time ago, and it’s still in my kitchen. 

Granddad died in 1994, and Nana started using his beloved basement as a storage area. It wasn’t the same anymore; it didn't feel right without Granddad's presence. The basement was the only thing that really changed when Granddad died. The rest of the house was Nana’s–from the carpet to the chandelier to the wallpaper to the china cabinet to the clear plastic covers on the living room furniture to the pictures on the wall and the bric-a-brac on the shelves and on the cabinets, every single detail was imbued with her spirit and her personality. I just can’t imagine walking into that house again. 

*****

“When I get old, make sure you tell me if I ever act like Nana.” My mother used to tell us this all the time. Any time my grandmother complained or acted cantankerous or ornery as was her wont, my mother would implore us to please please please let her know if she ever acted like Nana. Once, I told her that she was acting just like Nana (because she was) and she was furious, and she wouldn’t speak to me for the rest of the day. 

That was HILARIOUS. 

I mean to say, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I rest my case, amirite? 

Anyway, I’m old myself now. Well, I’m in my 50s, which used to be when people started to be considered old; and my mother is in her 70s, which is old by any standard. But do you know who is most like Nana in our family? Oh yes, it’s me, and it’s not even close. I’m much less vocal a complainer than Nana. That’s because I have this blog. But I also write outraged letters of complaint (via email of course). I am also a compulsive cleaner. I’m also a pretty serious Catholic–Mass, rosaries, Confession, all of it. I also never leave the house without lipstick. I also kick people out of my seat on the couch. (I mean, this couch is huge. You have to sit in my seat when the rest of the couch is wide open?) 

*****

I have a red sweater (well, I have a shit-ton of red sweaters) that I realized, when I put it on the other day, looks exactly like something my Nana would have worn. I kept that sweater on, and put on some pink lipstick and some fuzzy socks, and I felt just fine about eventually becoming an old lady who wears sweaters all winter and reads large-print books (mine will be electronic) and drinks too much coffee and rewatches her favorite old movies and TV shows at deafening volume. I'll probably go to Mass every day. I'll never miss a hockey game. I'll complain about the Republicans (Nana complained about the Democrats). I'll meet my friends at a diner, where we will all order nothing but soup. 

*****

One night last week, I spent 90 minutes on the phone with my old high school friend Rhona. I went to high school and college with Rhona, and we shared the experience of young womanhood in Philadelphia in the 1980s. I was a bridesmaid in Rhona's wedding in 1990. We hadn't talked for a long time, and so we caught up on each other's lives and children and husbands and elderly parents. Most of our conversation was focused on the present day, the right now, but we also reminisced a little bit, remembering swimming at the O'Connor Pool and shopping at Wanamaker's and eating at Rindelaub's. We thanked God that we were young during a time in which social media did not exist, because we were idiots who did stupid things all day long, and we would have documented every minute 

After we hung up, I thought about how lucky I was to still have a friend who knew me when I was a teenager. And I realized that the physical and sometimes mental decline that accompanies age is not the hardest part about being old.The hardest part about being really old is losing all of the people you shared your youth with. My grandmother was lucky enough not to outlive any of her children or grandchildren. But she outlived her husband and her siblings and all of her friends and neighbors. She lost everyone who lived with her as a contemporary, all of the people who shared the same history and the same frame of reference. She lost everyone who got the jokes. 

*****

Today is December 7, 2021, the 80th anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor, one of the many historic events that Nana lived through. We buried Nana yesterday, beginning with a Mass of Christian Burial at St. John the Baptist church in Philadelphia, and proceeding to Westminster Cemetery on the other side of the Schuylkill for the interment. It was a small funeral. A person who dies at almost 98 leaves few mourners behind. 

It’s cold today, cold and overcast with a faint smell of snow. Normally I'd be thinking about Christmas, especially after two days in Philadelphia, the worldwide capital of Christmas nostalgia. (Yes it is. No I will not be taking questions.) I heard more Nat King Cole, Bing Crosby, and Perry Como in the last two days than anyone needs to hear in an entire lifetime. I drove through all of my old neighborhood stomping grounds, lit up to maximum Christmas wattage, and it all seemed Christmas-y, but I didn't feel it, and I don’t think I will. Nana loved Christmas, and it won’t seem like Christmas without her.