NanananaNananana Hey Hey

So I’ve been thinking about my one other post, the subject being my ever pert, ever plump Nana. Her delicate floss of white blond hair that brings out the blue eyes and red cheeks I inherited from her, buzz through space and through the mouth piece on my cell phone so I can actually see her squat figure and limp-wrists gesticulating while she cusses. Yes, limp-wrists and a sailor mouth are two other things I have inherited from this sprightly woman.

What I mean to talk about however is a conversation I had with her recently. My Nana has a history of charitable work, though the term “charitable” is up for debate. You see, two of my Nana’s more recent philanthropic escapades have been… well… less than savory.

A few years back (when I was a senior in high school), my Nana, working with her women’s group (largely comprised of her fellow old biddies from the local YMCA water aerobics group), decided to donate foodstuffs to the local homeless shelter. I was enrolled to help. I was her accomplice. If she went down, I was going with her.

Now you’re probably wondering “how could giving food to a homeless shelter be a bad thing”. Good question. Well, I’ll tell you. Let me preface this with the fact that my Nana (Virginia is her given name) grew up during the depression, her parents Irish and Polish immigrant backgrounds meant that; food is life, and food should be saved. This is why I got the ham. My Nana hoards food, like she is preparing for the end of days. Cans sitting in her cellar full of beans, beets, soup, some dating back past my birth, aging like fine wines. She decided to send some of her older vintages over to the homeless shelter. Or should I say, she sent me with over to the homeless shelter. So there I go in my rundown, evergreen, Ford Taurus, the harbinger of death from tainted canned goods and ancient frozen meats, I was driving and American Made hearse. At least it was American made. My family would be proud.

The piece de résistance, a year old, frozen Easter Egg Cake.

Delish.

More recently Virginia is on to new organizations to send some of her good, albeit questionable, will. Last I spoke to Virginia, she was knitting while I was talking to her. Like any good grandmother (I know this is a gender trope, deal with it) my Nana is a first class knitter. Sweaters hats, scarves, jackets she can do it all. Right now she is working on knit caps for needy cancer patients, who have been exposed to radiation therapy. Great idea, generous, thoughtful, artful even. Somehow, Virginia manages to warp even this. Between questions like “How are you eating?” “When are you coming home?” and “Have you seen your brother?”, she pauses.

“Oh no, I think I’m getting a rash.”

“Do you’re allergic to something, maybe the flowers Aunt Caroline brought you are making you react to them.”

“No… I think it’s the wool I’m using.”

“The wool for the cancer patients?”

“Yes, it’s fairly coarse… maybe I can get more wool? Well I’ll just finish up this wool and then I’ll get some new stuff.”

“You’re still gonna send out those hats?”

“What do you want me to waste some perfectly good wool? Hey Maeve I will call you back, I’m going to go take some Benadryl for this rash.”

Great, that's all these poor people need, itchy scalps to top off their already joyous condition.

That’s Virginia, a class act kinda gal. As a side note; she’s going to see Hotel for Dogs so she can pick out the type of dog she wants. I’ll report back.