Tag Archives: Nana

Simplicity: Kazoo Moments -By Karla

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Tonight I sat at an elementary school watching a group of first graders sing about love and presidents, all the biggies of February. (We teachers try not to leave out anyone or anything.) So, they began with a song about how George Washington really didn’t wear a wig; he just powdered his hair. Ending with a ditty about what it means to be a good friend. 

Transported Back in Time

It took almost no time to whisk my mind back to when my two now-grown children were on a stage in elementary school. Memories flooded my mind. Lindsey singing a little solo, and Rachel’s big shout about guacamole. She had a horrid raspy voice. Even though she had a horribly hoarse voice—the show had to go on! I grinned at the thought of my lugging around the huge camcorder in my jumper dress. The three of us were so proud of their success.

A Simple View Point

The look on the kids’ faces tonight reminded me of how simple life is from their perspective at times. Joy oozed from their smiles when they pulled out kazoos and began tooting a tune!

I was there with my family-friends, whose children call me Nana. Although we had already made a potty trip immediately before the program started, my sweet four-year-old Rylynn needed to go again around the third song. What fun she was having being at her big brother’s school. She washed her hands from the water that sprayed out of the trough-like sink, adding even more excitement of the evening.

As we dodged the parents filming children through a phone, who would have ever thought that 25 years ago, I watched my Colby. Surely, every other child on that stage was as cute to someone as he was to me. My eyes stayed glued to him, watching his little arms shoot up and down not missing a beat. He seemed so proud of himself.

Heading Home with a Smile

On the way out of the school, I got a big hug from him saying thank you for coming. Then he pulled out his kazoo as if to give me a private concert. Laughingly, I joked with his parents about how that kazoo might get lost sometime soon. In the rain, I got to buckle Rylynn in her car seat because she begged for “Nana to do it”. During that moment, I heard her precious 16 month sister’s eyes light up saying Nana.

Walking to my car I thought, “God is so good; what a fun night to be me!”

 

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Grandparents: A $300 Treasure – By Karla

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 At only five feet and mostly peppered-haired Nana blessed everyone she met. She loved all people, making people feel special. Most didn’t know her real name, Ethel. Instead, she was known as Nana. Man, she could Nana cook!

Ophie Pound Cake 

For instance, take her Ophie pound cake. I know a lot about my family history, but I don’t recall someone named Ophie. While I do not know from whom the name came, I can say that Nana made this delight for so many people. If we had any occasion, her Ophie pound cake was present, whether she was or not.

Green Beans

Her talents weren’t limited to pound cakes; she also produced her legendary green beans. After Nana’s passing years ago, the grandkids discussed how they didn’t think they could ever eat green beans again. “No one will ever make them like Nana.” Luckily for us all, Aunt Anna had learned from the best, so Nana’s green beans still grace the tables.

Even Mac and Cheese

The first year I moved into what I thought was my forever home, the whole family drove over the mountain for a New Year’s celebration. Someone really played up that the great-grandchildren would enjoy some macaroni and asked Nana if she would make some. At eighty-eight, she had slowed a bit. She wanted to be included, and she seemed content with the request. Even mac and cheese from a box seemed special when made in her kitchen.

As everyone arrived, more and more food arrived. Nana’s mac and cheese got pushed to the back of refrigerator, and no one remembered it was there. Dinner came and went.

While tiding up the kitchen, my sister Gail discovered the forgotten noodles! Almost in slow motion, she twirled around pointing into the refrigerator. Her face froze in disbelief and horror that we might hurt Nana’s feelings! At her age, her feelings got hurt as often as a little kid’s would have. 

Almost simultaneously, Gail grabbed the container, and I reached for a big spoon. We rushed into the garage, raking the food from Nana’s dish into the thirty-three-gallon trash can, so she would not be discover our oversight.

Caught!

As we were nearing the end of the contents, we heard the doorknob turn, and we froze. I’m sure our expressions were that of our younger years when we would all be hooping and hollering in the basement. Nana would bound down the steps shaking the ruler reminding us, “Y’ungs, best quieten down before you wake up Grandmommie.”

Thankfully, our Aunt Anna stood on the concrete steps. What a relief! She walked onto the landing with her hands on her hips. Puzzled, she inquired, “Why are y’all doin’ throwin’ out perfectly good food?”

“Shh! We forgot the macaroni, and didn’t want Nana to think we forgot about her or that nobody wanted any,” we confessed.

“Alright, you two idiots (she affectionately called us), you could have just put it in a Tupperware container, instead of wasting it!”

Well, that would have been a better idea. We shared an unexpressed thought. 

Nana’s $300 Treasure

Recently, I was making a cake for a visit with Gail. I smiled as I read the cookbook. Many years ago as a wedding present, Nana gave me a blank cookbook. She filled it with her recipes, Mom’s, and Aunt Anna’s too. Over the years, the binding has worn so much that my daughters had rebound it as a present. I thought of Nana’s $300 dollar chocolate cake and all its yummy goodness. Not only the did I find the special recipe, but in her handwriting. What a treasure!

Ethel Marie Hunt (1913-2003)

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Aging Gracefully: My Hands -By Karla

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At forty-nine, my hands are starting to show signs of aging. Actually, they have been through quite a bit, as they have been used often over the decades.

Childhood

As a child, my hands held loads of stuffed animals. I shared my bed with my little sister and about twenty-five snugly, furry things every night. My hands have also petted numerous real animals. Mom was a stray-saver; I think we had fourteen cats—all outside of course—at one time. I’ve also had horses and dogs along the way. Yep, they have spent many hours with animals. 

My busy hands have spent hours at my Nana and Granddaddy’s. They have thrown a ball over the porch roof and prepared to catch it when my sister  would roll it back across. And on that porch, they have snapped green bean after green bean while we listened to many family tales of the olden day. They have held thousands of cards playing Old Maids, Author, Speed, and Rook. 

Teenage Years

Learning to drive was a real treat for my hands. I distinctly remember my oldest sister words. “Keep your hands on the steering wheel. And keep your eyes and TIRES on the road,” She peered briefly over the top of her newspaper. Then she pulled it upward again as if I had interrupted, and continued reading.

On my first date, my hands came in very handy! Leaving the theater, I walked straight into an oversized trash can. Yep! If it hadn’t been for my hands that I used to steady both, the trash can and I would have been rolling down the aisle!

Adulthood

In June of 1989, they carried my college diploma and my bridal boutique on two consecutive Saturdays. Over the next several years that followed, they held my two bundles of joy.

My hands had the pleasure of holding metal chains as I taught the girls to swing. They held cookie dough as I shaped their little hands into turkeys for Thanksgiving year after year. Later, they had the privilege of toting their bags filled with basketball and volleyball jerseys and gear.

More Recent Years

I have used my hands to wipe the tears from our eyes when my girls’ precious friend Amanda passed away from pancreatic cancer. They have had the blessing of holding my adult dad’s hand in the nursing home in his final days.

Over the years, they have prayed. Prayed for salvations, for peace, for mercy, for health, for patience, and for comfort.

Yes, my hands are aging , and yes, I dab a little cream on them every now and then to slow down the visible aging. However, I am beginning to settle my in my thoughts that I will enjoy my hands turning into a nana’s hands.

I want grandkids to curl their tiny fingers around my imperfect, wrinkled hands. I desire them to draw the gray-headed, Old Maid granny from my fingers and giggle with them.

Yes, I will take these aging hands and gladly help future generations learn to fold them humbly in prayer.

Harper Grace Allen

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