“Nana, Nana,” I cried as I reached the top of the stairs,“ will you make my hair into a biscuit?”
On that hot June morning, at five years old, I had been outside playing in my grandmother’s large backyard. Bordered by a privet hedge, her yard was my world as I explored the bursting rosebuds in the flower garden, followed the exploits of the Japanese beetles, startled sunning garter snakes, or scratched in the dirt under the bridal wreath. From time to time I sought shelter under the grape arbor or the huge Queen Anne cherry tree in the farthest corner, but that meant standing still. And I hadn’t yet searched for blooms to blow from the trumpet vine climbing the trellis that formed the back exit to the yard.
Nan, my father’s mother, appeared in the dim interior hallway, her shoulders shaking and her hand covering her mouth. Her eyes were twinkling as she bent down and hugged me, “A bun, you’d like to me to tie up your hair in a bun?”
“Yes,” I replied into her neck. “Will you make my hair into a bun?”
Her laughter, I knew, was from the pleasure she derived from me, as well as from my expression—which I had been so sure was right. Later, no doubt enjoying the experience all over again, Nan wrote up the anecdote and submitted it to her newspaper, the Christian Science Monitor. It was published in her favorite feature section, entitled “Small Fry Corner.”
Just as her house and yard was my world, Nan was the heart at the center of my world. Small and trim, she dressed appropriately for every occasion—whether she was going to the basement to do the laundry, setting out for town on market day, or heading for church on Sunday. Although there was rhythm, purpose, and order to her life, she gave me free reign to satisfy every child-driven impulse I had, from dressing up in her clothes or my aunt’s gowns in the attic to experimenting with spreading glue, even if it went beyond its paper boundaries onto the desktop. But even better than that was the fact that she was my playmate, romping in the neighboring fields, accompanying me down the Grand Blvd. hill on my wagon, playing Chinese checkers, anagrams, Old Maid, and Pit, and pretending we were fine ladies sitting down to tea.
Just as easily as she slipped into my childhood pursuits, Nan drew me into her adult realm. We went off, by bus, to the local library, post office, and bank on a regular basis; best of all were the trips into the city to the department stores and specialty shops. Naturally patient, Nan indulged my fantasies, my wanderings down aisles, or my staring at shoes in store windows; in fact, she seemed to welcome them. Learning from her was joyful—whether it was when she taught me to sew on her mother’s treadle, embroider a pillow, make grape jelly, add long columns of numbers, or use her binoculars to track a bird—because we always laughed.
I never knew why Nan delighted in everything I did and said. It wasn’t as if I were an angelic child, as my mother had made clear. Nevertheless, she seemed to love it when I combed her soft gray waves or snuggled close when I requested she read Little Women to me for the fourteenth time. She played hand games and handkerchief games in church to keep me from squirming too much, and she listened to me intently as we sipped our nightly cocoa. She allowed me to skip the crusts of my bread and always tried to make the foods I liked rather than expecting me to eat whatever she cooked. And she hugged and kissed me every morning and night, as well as lots of times in between.
I believed Nan was as perfect as a person could be, but I knew she had two flaws: she hated starlings and Catholics. And early on, I was aware that both of these reactions were inconsistent with her nature. She loved birds and she loved people—she never said anything bad about anyone, ever. She expressed her disapproval of the poor starlings by sweeping their messy nests from her attic eaves. She expressed her disapproval of Catholics by clucking over the fact that all the girls in the family down the street had the fist name of “Mary,” and by supporting a separation of church and state organization so that “Catholics would not take over the government.” Jean Bertolet, her ancestor, had to leave France because he was persecuted by the Catholics, I learned years before I would study European history.
Fortunately, Nan was living near my aunt in Boston when I began dating my first Catholic boyfriend, Walt, in high school. Although I wasn’t particularly guarded about any of my college boyfriends’ backgrounds, I was quick to introduce Philip, a Protestant, to Nan because I though she would be delighted by the fact that he was an accomplished pianist and, perhaps, because he went to Yale. She was pleased when he played her piano, but she was far more pleased to meet my future husband a few years later. Kinne, played guitar, a plus, but more important was the fact that he was carefree and adventurous.
It was snowing that first evening we visited Nan, now nearly eighty, who was dressed in skirt and sweater and wearing her pearls. Within minutes she knew she had a playmate again. She asked Kinne to take her on the sled down the hill behind her house. The night was black, and snowflakes drifted down as they climbed the steep incline, with Kinne leading Nan in her boots and dress coat. I watched from the darkened kitchen window and saw them slide into view and then tumble slowly sideways as they reached the bottom. When the ride was over–Kinne later reported–out came a sigh and a small, muffled voice declaring, “This is what I’ve wanted.”