Nana la linda is the name we grandkids have called my paternal grandmother for I don't know how long. It means "Nana the beautiful" and it is how she signed every birthday and Christmas card I remember opening, and still does to this day. When she married my step-grandfather, Jim, she started signing "Nana la linda y Jim el feo" (Jim the ugly) much to our delight at such a splendid joke. We loved Jim. He taught me how to play pool when I was eight and poker in junior high and when we were little, he would fill the jacuzzi on the patio up with cold water so we could pretend the lounge seat in the jacuzzi was really a water slide into the dolphin tank at Sea World. After the floods subsided from our water park adventures, and only after catching the little blue and green lizards in the backyard for a while, my cousins and I would perform dance routines that we had choreographed to Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation album for the family. Jim would toss quarters like we were the beautiful belly dancers at his favorite Greek restaurant. We felt wildly talented.
They lived in a small suburb in central Florida called Casselberry in a small ranch-style home that I wish I could purchase just so I could have forever the smell of tamales in the air and the feel of the cool tile on my bare feet. To this day, a requisite of any home I occupy is a ceiling fan in my bedroom like all the rooms at Nana's. There is nothing like a good sunburn smothered in aloe vera and cocoa butter while the cool ceiling fan wicks away the sting of a hard day's play at the beach.
The best suntan, Nana taught us, is obtained by following a simple regimen: First swim a couple of laps in the pool, lay out in the sun until dry, then proceed down the 8 steps from the pool to the sand (pictured right) and swim in the warm Atlantic waves for a while. Lay out until dry and repeat. It didn't do much by way of UV protection since your sunscreen would be gone after a couple of rounds, but in a week were all the loveliest shade of cafe con leche you could imagine.
She patiently instructed me in making one of our family's favorite dishes, Arroz con pollo as I jotted down scribbles of notes including phrases like "un chin chin of sal y un chin chin of pepper" translating in English to salt and pepper to taste. I have yet to master San Cocho, a delicacy in the Dominican Republic served for special occassions. I will have to visit for another lesson. She recently taught my son how to make the corn tortillas that accompany many a delectible dish. His pint-sized tortillas were the perfect complement to generations of comfort food being handed down.
As I try to channel the energy of my childhood adventures at Nana's into a few humble paragraphs, I find I would have to write much more to even begin to do justice to her story. You would have to know Nana to really appreciate what an amazing and complex woman she is. For all of the things I would love to know more about in her life, I know this: that I make more sense to myself when she is around. I marvel to see glimpses of her in me, and somehow some of the little pieces of the puzzles in my life seem to fit a little better. Something about having family draws clarity. I am glad that my son knows his Gi-Gi he calls her. Someday, he will trace one of his characteristics back to her and be glad he knows the woman who handed it down, Nana la linda.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Thursday, January 3, 2008
So it is 2:12 am and I can't sleep. I can't imagine how many blogs have been started under these exact circumstances.
Several things woke me before the dawn this morning, the main culprits being the following:
(1) I live in a home that was built in 1945, and at night, if you close all the heating vents in all of the common areas of the house, you get adequate heating in the bedrooms. I have determined through careful empirical observation and experimentation that if I leave the vent in my bedroom only half-way open, (or half-way closed depending on which school of glass-half-empty &/or full you hail from) then my husband and I stay comfortable throughout the night and my son stays toasty in his room as well. Tonight, upon entering the bedroom and feeling a noticeable chill & ignoring the months of data I had collected, I made the rash decision to leave the vent fully open. As I'm sure you have already surmised, I awoke around 1:30 this lovely morn feeling much like we had been relocated to the place of my ancestors directly on top of the equator. Now as often as I proclaim that I come from a tropical people and the cold is not for me, one thing I cannot abide is slumbering in temperatures that make a sauna look breezy. That is what woke me up.
(2) This is what kept me up. High-school. Bizarre I know, especially since I am a good 10 years removed from my Alma matter. I had a dream about one of my two big high-school crushes. And, no not that kind of dream. It was completely innocent, just like my crush and the dynamic between us. In my dream, we had been planning a school event and there was a miscommunication followed by a sweet realization that is was indeed a miscommunication and that the friendship was still in tact. The dream was about as complex as an amoeba. Not much to it really, but what kept me awake was all of the wonderful memories from high school that the dream unearthed . I fully acknowledge the rarity of enjoying high school, especially when that stage of adolescence is full of teen angst and insecurity and, while I had my fair share of that, I was surprised at what stood out in my memory.
I remembered choir trips to Tacoma, Washington for Musical, a choir camp and competition for schools in the Northwest. I recollected goofing off and singing my heart out with friends, & losing my voice every year before the command performance. One of the most pleasant memories about Musical, oddly, is the bus ride. It was about 4-8 hours on the road, depending on which chaperons drove and how often we stopped for snacks (we were always ravenously hungry), and it was a solid day of uninterrupted time with friends. There was ample time to chatter with girlfriends, work up the nerve to flirt a little with Mr. Crush, talk with said girlfriends about said flirting and then satiate my near super-hero metabolism with cheese puffs, Bit O' Honey(Mr. Crush's favorite) and Blue Raspberry Blow-Pops. There was no homework, no responsibility other than to sing and have fun, and hope that the next time I am sitting next to Mr. Crush, that he just might hold my hand.
The next memory that shook me from nodding off was of "Mini-sessions". I attended a small private school, and 2 weeks before school let out was Mini-sessions, a week long go at various moderately educational, mostly recreational activities. We could sign-up for adventures such as rock-climbing, white water rafting, a coast trip (which always included stopping at the outlet mall), and some more local gigs like cooking, and sewing, and art. There was something for everyone. Freshman year I took cooking and learned how to make quite literally the best cinnamon rolls I have had opportunity to try. The next 2 years in a row I went rock climbing at Smith Rock with our choir director (who also happens to be a skilled rock and glacier climber) It was no coincidence that Mr. Crush dabbled in rock climbing, but truly I loved the sport. As I reminisced, I could almost feel the dirt under my fingernails and adrenaline pulsing through my biceps and quads as I replayed reaching the summit of a tough climb in my mind. The images of friends and the pristine skyline as the sun set gently over the cliffs will be forever imprinted on my memory. It was an amazing trip.
Another random phantom that stirred me from the bliss that is slumber, was of a day after school in the spring, just before mini-sessions my junior year. It began to rain the kind of giant rain-drops that wash the ground clean & smells faintly of fresh cut grass and the neighbor's roses. One of my best friends and I immediately took off our flip-flops without a moment's hesitation and splashed around in the puddles on the sidewalk. This morning as I lay in bed, beneath the sweltering heat of my down comforter that has now been kicked to the edge, I could feel the cool water like silk between my toes, and I had to smile.
My thoughts turn to my baptism, going down into that icy creek in July 15 years ago and knowing that I would never be the same again. I remember the presence of friends and family, but most of all, I remember savoring being under that water, though it was only for a second or two. But, I swear water never felt so good. It wasn't cold under the water like it was when I first got in, it was the perfect temperature, like the same cool silk between my toes the day it rained after school. I just let is wash over me and take all the the things that held me back downstream. And truly, I have never been the same.
I have always been a hopeless romantic with a visceral memory and random dream pattern. I marvel at the way God has shaped me over the years and revel in the wonderful memories He has afforded me. And from where I stand, there is nothing but blue sky up ahead.
Several things woke me before the dawn this morning, the main culprits being the following:
(1) I live in a home that was built in 1945, and at night, if you close all the heating vents in all of the common areas of the house, you get adequate heating in the bedrooms. I have determined through careful empirical observation and experimentation that if I leave the vent in my bedroom only half-way open, (or half-way closed depending on which school of glass-half-empty &/or full you hail from) then my husband and I stay comfortable throughout the night and my son stays toasty in his room as well. Tonight, upon entering the bedroom and feeling a noticeable chill & ignoring the months of data I had collected, I made the rash decision to leave the vent fully open. As I'm sure you have already surmised, I awoke around 1:30 this lovely morn feeling much like we had been relocated to the place of my ancestors directly on top of the equator. Now as often as I proclaim that I come from a tropical people and the cold is not for me, one thing I cannot abide is slumbering in temperatures that make a sauna look breezy. That is what woke me up.
(2) This is what kept me up. High-school. Bizarre I know, especially since I am a good 10 years removed from my Alma matter. I had a dream about one of my two big high-school crushes. And, no not that kind of dream. It was completely innocent, just like my crush and the dynamic between us. In my dream, we had been planning a school event and there was a miscommunication followed by a sweet realization that is was indeed a miscommunication and that the friendship was still in tact. The dream was about as complex as an amoeba. Not much to it really, but what kept me awake was all of the wonderful memories from high school that the dream unearthed . I fully acknowledge the rarity of enjoying high school, especially when that stage of adolescence is full of teen angst and insecurity and, while I had my fair share of that, I was surprised at what stood out in my memory.
I remembered choir trips to Tacoma, Washington for Musical, a choir camp and competition for schools in the Northwest. I recollected goofing off and singing my heart out with friends, & losing my voice every year before the command performance. One of the most pleasant memories about Musical, oddly, is the bus ride. It was about 4-8 hours on the road, depending on which chaperons drove and how often we stopped for snacks (we were always ravenously hungry), and it was a solid day of uninterrupted time with friends. There was ample time to chatter with girlfriends, work up the nerve to flirt a little with Mr. Crush, talk with said girlfriends about said flirting and then satiate my near super-hero metabolism with cheese puffs, Bit O' Honey(Mr. Crush's favorite) and Blue Raspberry Blow-Pops. There was no homework, no responsibility other than to sing and have fun, and hope that the next time I am sitting next to Mr. Crush, that he just might hold my hand.
The next memory that shook me from nodding off was of "Mini-sessions". I attended a small private school, and 2 weeks before school let out was Mini-sessions, a week long go at various moderately educational, mostly recreational activities. We could sign-up for adventures such as rock-climbing, white water rafting, a coast trip (which always included stopping at the outlet mall), and some more local gigs like cooking, and sewing, and art. There was something for everyone. Freshman year I took cooking and learned how to make quite literally the best cinnamon rolls I have had opportunity to try. The next 2 years in a row I went rock climbing at Smith Rock with our choir director (who also happens to be a skilled rock and glacier climber) It was no coincidence that Mr. Crush dabbled in rock climbing, but truly I loved the sport. As I reminisced, I could almost feel the dirt under my fingernails and adrenaline pulsing through my biceps and quads as I replayed reaching the summit of a tough climb in my mind. The images of friends and the pristine skyline as the sun set gently over the cliffs will be forever imprinted on my memory. It was an amazing trip.
Another random phantom that stirred me from the bliss that is slumber, was of a day after school in the spring, just before mini-sessions my junior year. It began to rain the kind of giant rain-drops that wash the ground clean & smells faintly of fresh cut grass and the neighbor's roses. One of my best friends and I immediately took off our flip-flops without a moment's hesitation and splashed around in the puddles on the sidewalk. This morning as I lay in bed, beneath the sweltering heat of my down comforter that has now been kicked to the edge, I could feel the cool water like silk between my toes, and I had to smile.
My thoughts turn to my baptism, going down into that icy creek in July 15 years ago and knowing that I would never be the same again. I remember the presence of friends and family, but most of all, I remember savoring being under that water, though it was only for a second or two. But, I swear water never felt so good. It wasn't cold under the water like it was when I first got in, it was the perfect temperature, like the same cool silk between my toes the day it rained after school. I just let is wash over me and take all the the things that held me back downstream. And truly, I have never been the same.
I have always been a hopeless romantic with a visceral memory and random dream pattern. I marvel at the way God has shaped me over the years and revel in the wonderful memories He has afforded me. And from where I stand, there is nothing but blue sky up ahead.
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