Today's date, and also the date 100 years ago, when my Nana was born. I think of her every June, and of her pearl birthstone, which she would send me every year for my own birthday. It was the perfect birthstone for her. Not the showiest, flashiest gem, but a subtle gleam, the reflective result of grit under duress.
My Nana did not have an Ozzie and Harriet marriage, and she learned to be an entirely independent woman when such things were still largely unheard of. She lived on her own with two daughters, worked in a school cafeteria, and went to college alongside my own mom and all the other kids twenty+ years her junior.
I wish I knew more about her younger years, but my Nana was a stoic woman. She had experienced her share of personal pain, but primarily chose to sequester her feelings behind clamped jaw, at least where we grandkids were involved. She grew up through tough times, the child of Russian Jewish immigrants by way of Ellis Island. Perhaps that's why I never heard discussion of the Depression from her. Maybe it was child's play in comparison with the conditions from which they came.
She wasn't a wealthy woman, but a handful of treasures survive her memory- paintings that she began making in her retired years, the smell of the leather wallets and gloves she would bring for us from Gloversville, New York, and the Gebachte cookies, made from a recipe older than she was, from egg and oil dough, damson plum and apricot jams, and cinnamon sugar. She would package up these rolled cookies in sheets of wax paper and send them in the mail to us, wherever we were, for special occasions. (Thankfully the recipe survived her passing with the foresight of the Edelstein cousins, who insisted she make a batch with them watching so they could write it all down!)
One of my favorite memories occurred on one of her last visits. I listened with dropped jaw as Nana told us about her solo cross-country trip from Maryland to California. (How had we never heard about this before?!) My parents were moving here with the three of us all under the age of 6, and she offered to drive the family station wagon for them as we flew. Said it was something she had always wanted to do, and at 65, all by herself, she did it. (Sadly, I inherited NONE of her sense of direction!) I keep this memory in my pocket whenever I want to talk myself into doing something largely less brave than that, by myself.
Ross and I have been plugging away at his permit driving hours, and in addition to the rules of the road, I am attempting to flesh out other helpful habits of responsibility. In the spirit of such things, we have discussed having one place where he always puts his keys and his wallet so he can always find them. But of course, Ross can't find his wallet to put it there!! So, last night I thought, "I know! I'll have him drive us to Target so he can pick out a new wallet and get this ritual underway." I had planned on making him use his allowance to pay for it, since he lost the last one. But standing in the check-out line it dawned on me what today is. Of COURSE!
"Ross, you're in luck. My Nana wants you to have this wallet for her birthday."
By now, he is used to hearing crazy things like this out of my mouth (as are the rest of you!) Frankly, he didn't care what the reason was, so long as it meant he got to keep his allowance. And frankly, I don't care if it actually happened or if it was just a figment of my imagination, but I felt Nana's satisfied endorsement of the arrangement.
Happy 100 years since your birth, Nana! Perhaps we'll make some jelly cookies in your honor.
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