Nana

Nana lives alone these days.  Papa – as you may recall – passed away late last year close to Thanksgiving.  This strikes quite the pall about the holiday as it is also when Sam lost her father, a far more shocking and difficult tale.  But Nana is the subject today and how she is.

She is okay, from what I can gather.  I send her missives every so often and avoid telephone conversation.  The telephone is a hard thing to use with my grandparents since they cannot hear without electronic aid and these devices typically fail in their function.  Grandpa Grimm peppers his conversations with several “Whats?” and “Okay, Steves” which makes it interesting.  Nana remembers my name fairly well, but still has a lot of whats involved.

The story from the South*:  Nana is living primarily in the upstairs of her house.  She is cautious when using the stairs but must do so to get the laundry done.  Any news of her comes mostly from Pops and Ma and it sounds like she’s getting a little lonely.  This is too bad, because for an 80 something Southern belle with cataracts and diabetes, she’s surprisingly spry.

What she needs is someone to move the washing machine upstairs.  Asking her to move out is probably not a good idea, though I understand she’s thought about it.  The idea of Nana in a nursing home is difficult to think on – and I would hope she could find one of the nice ones that has lots of bingo games and quilting bees and not one of the depressing ones where everyone watches reruns of “Bonanza” every evening.

Still, I think she would be happiest with visitors at her current domicile and a washer and dryer upstairs.  I wish we could make it over to help her get her house organized, but it is too difficult to manage right now.

*Anyone meeting Nana would describe her as being “Southern.”  There is contention, I realize, that Southern Indiana is not really “The South.”  The entire “The South” argument drives me crazy, since talking to several people in this world I have yet to find a single region of the US without people claiming to be Southern.  Geography doesn’t matter to anyone, so I’ve made a personal choice to allow anyone who says their Southern to be Southern in my brain.

If I wanted to pedantic I would make them cook me fried chicken and decide from there.

Author: Matthew

A father, son, husband, and fairly rad dude.

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