Notes From Nana

Every day when I was six, then seven, all the way to 10, I made the short walk through the white mop head hydrangea bushes to my Nana's house. It was time to practice. Each day I played. My grandmother sat off to my right, listening, watching, correcting, and nodding. At the time, I did not know that she sang opera before marrying my grandfather, whom, sadly, I never met. All I knew was she was devoted to my music lesson. Half way through there was always a break for an orange. Then back to the scales. How fast her fingers moved. Sometimes I wonder if I made mistakes just to listen to her playing. Her talent and ease at the keyboard was a gift that I opened when I was young, but did not appreciate until today as I sit with my own granddaughter playing the same notes, with the same love, if not with the same talent.

Why Nana?

I have been called a lot of different names in my 62 years. Some I earned, some came with the role. But when my granddaughter was born, I knew I would be Nana. How did I know? My English heritage was steeped with Nanny's. My father and his siblings always knew my great-grandmother whose cane walked the ceilings of my childhood home was good for a cookie. Cooka-Nana was her name. My paternal grandmother lived next door and my maternal grandmother lived across the road and through the meadow. My name for  both was  Nanny; somehow there was no confusion when "nanny" was mentioned. I think it was the unique role each played in my life that made this an easy distinction.  Later, of course, as a sophisticated teen I  switched to "Nan" for my maternal grandmother whose longevity enabled her  to watch my two sons reach age 10.
But it was not just the familiarity with the name. Each woman lives in my heart today, and often helps me look through the grandmother lens to understand life.