Nana’s House

My maternal grandmother was German. She and my grandfather immigrated to America from Wiesbaden in the late 1920’s. They were simple people: my grandfather was a leather craftsman, and my grandmother was a seamstress.

They eventually settled in Maspeth, New York. When I was very small, my sister and I would go for overnight stays. Although my sister was too young to remember much, I was old enough to catalogue small details which have stayed with me my entire life: the smell of leather and homemade soap and fresh linen, fresh baked cookies and fruit which sat in a bowl on the table where we ate. The way the sun shined through the windows in the kitchen, and the spider plants which hung in the corner to catch the light. My Nana’s dresses, made in flowery patterns with pockets which always had a small treat waiting for us.

My Nana had a garden in the back of their row home. There were petunias, roses, pansies. I am transported back to that loving time when I catch the scent of a petunia.

In my Nana’s garden, there were metal chairs that rocked. I remember one warm spring day, she put me in her lap and sang this song: “Oh playmate, come out and play with me, climb up my apple tree, slide down my cellar door! Oh playmate, come out and play with me, and we’ll be jolly friends, forever more!”

Nana’s house meant instant comfort. One of the more tender memories I have is bedtime. After a bath, an episode of the show “Flipper” with a special bowl of ice cream, we would be shepherded upstairs. Nana would tuck us into bed, which was covered with a quilt she’d made from the remnants of dresses and other creations. It smelled fresh like the outdoors; it was soft like a breeze. My sister and I cuddled up under its warmth. A wind up clock ticked softly, lulling us to sleep. In the morning, we’d look at the quilt’s patches and wonder which dress each one came from.

I have but a few photographs of my Nana. I have something else though: I have that quilt. Whenever I’m feeling particularly lonesome, I pull it out from where it’s stored and gather it up, burying my face in it. That spring day, the song Nana sang, sunshine and petunias, existing in the safe universe of my Nana’s house, all come back to me. And I feel better.