Some of you may have already read the earlier version of this essay. However, I edited it a few weeks ago, and it is loads better. Please comment so I can know what to improve.
To my Nana,
whose birthday I still celebrate on November 27.
Not too many people are fond of the reek of fish fry and grease, but I don’t mind. It reminds me of my great grandparents’ lake house in Horseshoe, Arkansas. Whenever my Pop fries bacon, a memory of Nana floats back to mind. With one hand on her hip, the other clutching a rusty spatula, she flips catfish and crappie in the propane deep fryer. Due to her arthritis, she has to bind her left hand fingers around her right wrist in order to remove the heavy skillet from the fire. While the fish sizzles in the fat, she rolls flour and corn into balls with her fat-knuckled hands. She smiles at me, her gorgeous gray eyes express a kindness only grandmas possess. “Give me some sugar,” she says. Knowing exactly what she says, I wrap my arms around her frail body and press my childish lips to her wrinkled yet soft cheek. Immediately, I’m overwhelmed by her perfume, a powdery-sweet scent.
I’ve always had a strong bond with Nana. For one, we share the same name. Hers being Francis Louise and mine, Joanna Louise. When I was born, she insisted that I be called Louise. Though only four feet and eleven inches, she was a little ball of fire, a Death-ah-Blow as PawPaw would call it. She refused to take no for an answer. Three days later (and only one after her birthday), I was given the name Joanna Louise Bernardini. Cradling me in her loose-skinned arms, she whispered in my ear “I love you Louise. You’re mine.” Since my birthday was so near hers and I carried her middle name, I was considered her favorite.
Sometimes I can still feel the chill of the autumn wind blowing in our faces while we stand on that ramshackle dock and simply admire the view. Golden and carrot colored leaves dance beneath the almost red Sun and the wind whistles above the white capped waves. During the summer we go fishing with my brother Jordan and PawPaw. With my construction site colored vest, I sniff the gasoline that rises when the motor erupts. Ducking our heads, Jordan and I bend over so to not be knocked out by the heavy hooks that hold the boat in place. While the boat cuts through the slimy algae, my brother and I keep our eyes peeled for turtles and tortoises. Before we exit the mouth of the canal PawPaw slows down and eases up to the side. Crawling out and fiddling with thickets and branches, he manages to acquire a twig of juicy blackberries. Even though they stain our fingertips, we stuff our mouths with the berries, stick out our tongues, and compare whose is more purple.
Once near the lilies, Nana reaches over and pulls a pad three times the circumference of my face and plops it on my head. I resemble a Munchkin. I always want to ask her questions like “How do fish breathe?” and “Where do they sleep?” but she constantly shushes me.
“Hush child. If you don’t be quiet, the fishies will run away,” she often said.
“But fish can’t…”
“Shh!”
I never understood how fish ran without legs.
Nana and PawPaw never fail to catch, but I am lucky enough to have one nibble on my line. Many times my heart jumps from excitement and I begin to reel in my pole, only then to realize my hook is caught on a log or tire. Jordan’s catches appear like Russian nesting dolls; each one comes out smaller and smaller. Once the Sun’s rays stretch for the horizon, we head back, and Jordan makes sure the hefty catfish doesn’t flop out while it breathes heavily. I snack on the smashed and sun dried berries.
While PawPaw demonstrates to Jordan how to properly cut open a catfish, Nana assists me with setting up the croquet equipment. Even though it hurt her back, she played with me every time I asked (which was every time I visited). Of course she let me win. I knew no one more altruistic than her; she was the essence of a caring grandmother.
Nana was perhaps the most oddly rounded individual I knew. Everyday, after she and PawPaw finished their six AM fishing, Nana knitted and sewed and crocheted. There was no one more talented at such a complicated skill. From quilts to felt bookmarks to pot pan holders, she did it all. For my sixth birthday she gave me a doll whose ball gown she had knitted with purple yarn and finished with ivory lace. I named her Emily (which I later found meant “industrious”). That was the last gift I received from Nana.
Often I think about her. I miss her smile and the way she squeezed me with her arms. I miss sleeping in the pull out couch and watching The Ten Commandments with her. I miss the story of her and PawPaw’s engagement: how she was crawling out from under the house and PawPaw replied “Do you cook too? I’m gonna marry you.” I miss the fried catfish and hushpuppies that she made for the fourth of July. I miss the endless hours of croquet and fishing. Whenever I visit that rugged dock, I feel as if Nana is standing there right next to me, talking to me, pointing out whenever a fish jumps. I can smell her powder and feel the warmth I receive from her hugs. She may not be down here but I know she’s There, watching down on me. I tilt my head to the sky and say “I love you too, Nana. I’ll see you when it’s time.”
