Nana's Eulogy

My mother and Paul would point out the farm nestled in the hills as we crept down and up winding roads in our blue Chevy. It always seemed like a long drive packed into the car squished between Jenny and Christmas presents. The view of frozen trees some years with snow, others bare are all meshed in my head. We spent our childhood Christmases with Nana and Bumpa Fogg and because of that, my memory of the holiday will forever be entwined with travel, snow, woods, old sleighs, blaring fire trucks with Santa perched inside, cowbells, and family.

Not that it was only winter that we visited. I specifically remember rambling up the dirt driveway when summer was still in full swing. There was a tire dangling from an ancient tree, the white of the house sparkled, and the grass was almost too green against a sky that shone too iridescently in a way that made it feel unreal like a blue screen for a movie. In the center of nature’s exaggerated hues Nana was sunbathing. Her bronze skin twinkled against her blue swimsuit. She stood up to greet us and I was struck by her beauty. It was a mixture of Katherine Hepburn and Rita Hayworth. My nana did not look like other kid’s grandmothers. She was young, lean, raw. Her hair was full and lush with color. Her face was free of wrinkles, her eyes were alive with thoughts that went beyond baking us cookies and treats. I used think that was why she was “Nana” and not “Grandma”

I told my mom that I wanted to speak of memories of my Nana. Then I sat down and began to sift through them, sketching ideas here and there, jotting down notes, talking to my husband and children. I remember Nana’s zombie walk. She rolled her eyes to the back of her head, dangled her long fingers in front of her outstretched arms and she moaned better than any actor in Night of the Living Dead. Jenny and I ran from her squealing like piglets, laughing into our cupped hands, and clutching each other’s arms.

There were Christmases too many to count spent at the Fogg Homestead. Sleeping in that small room off of the dining room, I could hear the adults laughing, speaking in sharp whispers, glasses and bottles clinking as they wrapped last minute gifts. Nana slept on the couch beside the wood stove that held our holiday stockings. A camera was tucked tightly in her hand as she waited for Jenny or I to wake her up as we snuck over the creaky board to collect our treats.

One summer, we visited and Nana brought us out walking in the fields to see the cows. Jenny and I liked to name them all Joanne for our mother. I was lagging behind watching my feet move in my mother’s tan sneakers through the tall grass. I was surprised that these feet had already grown to her size and soon would surpass her. Ahead of Nana and Jenny, I spied a tree stump that called out to be jumped upon. My big feet started moving and I passed the others. Nana hollered for me to watch out for the cow dung just as my mother’s sneakers left the ground and I cascaded through the air, yellow hair breezing behind me. For a brief second, I felt exhilarated and free and then it was over as my feet met with what should have been solid wood and my mother’s sneakers sunk into manure.

I spent this past Tuesday filtering through a couple of photo albums and a box of loose pictures looking for images of Nana for the memory board. I worked with my three daughters, Claudia, Camille, and Deirdre while Theo tottered around and Sam cruised like a rocket. It was a difficult task for the four of us because of the memories wedged in of our previous family. This has been a year of departure for us; fathers leaving the country, lost pets, and our family matriarch passing on.

I wanted to choose one memory to speak about that captured my Nana as I remember her, but I was scared that I would recount it wrong, that others who had been there would
remember it differently, that I would be perceived as lying. I have always been too concerned with how others think of me and what I say, so I don’t speak. I write. But, I write fiction because I worry that I do not remember things correctly, that no one remembers things correctly. I am convinced that our memories are tempered and transformed by our thoughts, feelings, and time.

For example, in my mind, I remember places I have been in either bright light or shadows. My first apartment is an array of dark dancing from wall to carpet to dirty window. In contrast, my memories of the Fogg Homestead are glitter and sparkling snow, every room lit up with enchantment, each door ready to take Jenny and I some place new like Oz or Narnia.

That’s how I remember Nana, dark curly hair with bronzed tips, eyes the color of sun bleached denim, small stature with large giving hands and feet like my own, big and strong. In my mind, I will always seen Nana in a bikini pulling herself up from her lounge chair, stretching to greet us, bright, feisty, and magical. Our memories are what we are left with. And it does not matter whether I remember it exactly like everyone else does, because our memories are sculpted by our individual experiences, thoughts, and feelings. My Nana lives on within me, through the smiles of my children, the eyes of my Uncle David, the shape of my face, the lips of my mother, the temperament of my sister. She will be with me and you always.