Nana
She died a few days ago at the age of 84. She was the maternal grandmother of a former student of mine. I couldn't have seen her more than twenty times over the last eight years. But those were sufficient to educate me on the essence of this particular nana, the capital and capitalized Nana. More than anything there beamed a selfless love of family and friends, an unpretentious natural goodness.
She and her husband often chatted with me when I visited the household of their loving daughter where they spent much of their time. The topics were common things, even trivial ones. Once the subject was some unique pastry cakes I had brought over, a kind of Italo-Russian rum-filled cake. They guessed correctly the name of the bakery that made them. On the question of food, especially Italian-American food, Nana remained an oracle. Taking her role of grandmother as a sacred mission to be extended to the world at large and to a non-member of the family like me, she would relentlessly ply me with another plate of fettuccine or a fourth helping of cheese-and-ham calzones. "Oh no, I've had enough," was not an appropriate response and invited grandmaternal offense. Danger lurked here, especially with her dessert specialty, a chocolate-and-cream trifle that was hardly trifling. It was dubbed "the bomb" or perhaps la bomba, which suggested a dessert christened in the kitchen of Federico Fellini.
The last time I saw Nana alive was shortly after the death of her husband about eighteen months ago. She spoke of her loneliness. Not an expert in how to console, I told her how my own mother had gone through the same thing and how difficult it is to lose a loved one. Once at an Easter dinner I had shown Nana some photographs of my own parents and family. She enjoyed seeing them and hearing my explanations. I never had grandparents I knew or saw. I was brought up in America and they had lived or had died in Italy during the war years. Nana was not old enough to be my grandmother and barely old enough to be my mother. Yet in some way she could very well be the nana-of-us-all. She was that beautiful a person.
She and her husband often chatted with me when I visited the household of their loving daughter where they spent much of their time. The topics were common things, even trivial ones. Once the subject was some unique pastry cakes I had brought over, a kind of Italo-Russian rum-filled cake. They guessed correctly the name of the bakery that made them. On the question of food, especially Italian-American food, Nana remained an oracle. Taking her role of grandmother as a sacred mission to be extended to the world at large and to a non-member of the family like me, she would relentlessly ply me with another plate of fettuccine or a fourth helping of cheese-and-ham calzones. "Oh no, I've had enough," was not an appropriate response and invited grandmaternal offense. Danger lurked here, especially with her dessert specialty, a chocolate-and-cream trifle that was hardly trifling. It was dubbed "the bomb" or perhaps la bomba, which suggested a dessert christened in the kitchen of Federico Fellini.
The last time I saw Nana alive was shortly after the death of her husband about eighteen months ago. She spoke of her loneliness. Not an expert in how to console, I told her how my own mother had gone through the same thing and how difficult it is to lose a loved one. Once at an Easter dinner I had shown Nana some photographs of my own parents and family. She enjoyed seeing them and hearing my explanations. I never had grandparents I knew or saw. I was brought up in America and they had lived or had died in Italy during the war years. Nana was not old enough to be my grandmother and barely old enough to be my mother. Yet in some way she could very well be the nana-of-us-all. She was that beautiful a person.