103

June 15, 2015

Happy Birthday today to my Nanny. She would be 103 on this June 15. 

I know I write of her often, but there is just no one like her; and there is no one who mattered more to me in the first two decades of my life. And still.

Nanny could be hot tempered and a tad harsh. My overly-critical nature comes straight from her. My Papa used to go for long laps around the house while Nanny cooled off from whatever flared up. But my memories are strongest of her delicious spaghetti and perfectly buttered bread; of her laugh; of her orange recliner that the two of us would squeeze in together; of her smile and her smell of stale cigarettes and Estée Lauder perfume.

One of my favorite Nanny stories was in the Emergency Room in the last several years of her life. Nanny had fallen and was taken back for an x-Ray. Aunt Grace and I waited for her to return. When she did, a young male orderly rolled her in. Of course, Nanny was clothes-free during the x-Ray. As the gurney stopped and the orderly left, Nanny looked at us both. "Oh Grace," she said, looking at her sister. "That poor boy had to see my funny face."

Another classic Nanny was yet another hospital stay. Dad and I stopped in for a visit and Nanny's wig was askew. The seam of the front of said wig had sunk down just above her penciled-in brows. Knowing this would not thrill her if she was well, I tried to correct the wig's placement while we chatted. My subtle efforts were unsuccessful and resulted in not fixing the wig but definitely pissing Nanny off. "What are you doing?" She snapped.

I abandoned my efforts as I looked across the bed at my Dad in terror. A pissed off Nanny was always to be avoided. She was in no mood.

Nanny's roommate was doing a fair bit of moaning during this visit. She was apparently in pain for which Nanny had zero sympathy.  As the roomie persisted in her cries, my dad showed some concern.  Have I mentioned that Nanny was incapable of whispering?

"Oh, Bill," Nanny hollered at us both, "it's put on! It's put on!" Dad tried to shush our dear Nanny as she loudly dismissed the pleas of her suffering roommate, but it was of no use. Nanny wasn't having it. 

These vignettes paint a picture of a calloused, crusty old broad. That is not entirely accurate, but it is a slice of the woman I knew as my protector and grandmother and friend. The reality was a fiercely loving lady who was scarred by her daughter's death and who did everything she could to make our lives better in the wake of the loss. We moved in with her when Mom died. In the months that followed, she lost her own mom, Nanny Great. Then, just two months before Dad remarried, Papa died suddenly on Easter Sunday. Nanny went from a full house to being entirely alone. She was the first adult to be really honest with me about how difficult life was, and yet how great it should be, too. 

So, happy birthday, Henrietta Medlin French. To me, you are what love is. Always will be.