A Nana Story for Halloween

Nana moved with us when my father was transferred to Connecticut. A widow, my dad was her only child. I was seven. Our little family was all she really had.

As the oldest of four, I got to stay up later than the rest on those nights Nana babysat. She'd read me poetry from slim and seemingly ancient leather books embossed with gold curlicue lettering. I had regular readings of "The Spider & the Fly;" "The Owl & the Pussycat;" and something with the ominous refrain of "And the goblins'll gitcha if ya don't watch out..."

She'd read me grown-up poems, too, poems by Whitman, Longfellow, Shelley, and Dickinson. But it wasn't all serious stuff - I recall taking particular delight in Robert W. Service's "The Cremation of Sam McGee" and "The Shooting of Dan Magrew."

Later, she'd sit on the edge of my bed and say a night-time prayer with me. We had any number of conversations there in my darkened bedroom. Nana especially liked to talk about her religion.

"I'm a Spiritualist," she'd tell me solemnly. "And we believe in two things.

"We believe in the Golden Rule - 'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.'"

I already knew that one from Sunday School.

"And the second thing we believe," Nana continued, "is that you can communicate with the dead."

"Okay, Nana..."

(Needless to say, my religious education has been eclectic.)


Years later, in my mid-20's, I saw a tiny newspaper notice for services at the local Spiritualist Church. On Wednesday nights, they held 'readings.' I liked the sound of that. Something unusual to try and, in a way, paying homage to my grandmother. I wanted to see what it was all about and, who knew, maybe she'd get in touch!

The church was brick and tiny, somewhere off Van Brunt as I recall. One big room, painted sky blue, with a small, raised wooden platfom on one end.

There were three people seated on the platform in old wooden chairs. Two women and a man, each as old as the chairs they were sitting in. They were the readers, and they took turns talking with an individual in the audience, until everyone had been read.

The old man pointed to me and asked, "Does the name Bernie - or Ernie - mean anything to you?"

I told him it didn't.

"Well, he's real close to you." Then he asked me if I knew an Alfred. "He lived on a farm," the old man said.

Nope again.

What a disappointment. I called my parents the next weekend and told them about it, that Nana would have loved it but that there was really nothing there.

My father asked me what the old man had said.

I dismissively told him about "Bernie or Ernie" and he said, "Bernie was my father's real name."

That was a shocker - I'd always been told my grandfather's name was the same as my father's middle name: Burns.

"Okay, then," I said, "is there an Alfred in there somewhere?"

My mother answered in the affirmative. I'd forgotten both the great-uncle and the farm.

I went back to the Spiritualist Church the next Wednesday. The same guy read me but came up with zilch. The week after that, the sweet little old lady with the snow white hair and piercing blue eyes pointed to me and said, "You - the little girl in white. Does the name Hazel mean anything to you?"

Hazel was Nana's name.

She told me Nana was close by, watching and protecting, at peace. That she loved me very much. Then she started patting her chest and asked, "Did Hazel have lung problems?"

A negative on that one. Nana had a lot of problems, but her lungs weren't one of them.

"Well, I just feel like I'm having a hard time breathing," the old woman told me, continuing to pat the front of her housedress.

Two hours later, having a cup of coffee with the friend who'd accompanied me, it hit me.

I was with Nana when she had her fatal heart attack. By that time, we were both babysitting (I'd reached the age where I didn't need - nor did I want - to have a babysitter. I was 12.)

We were watching late night TV in the downstairs family room when she fell over onto the floor. She lay there with her eyes open but glazed, unseeing.

She was trying to breathe, but her breath came in a long, harsh rasp, over and over and over.

That's my last memory of her.

Happy Halloween...

Home Again, Home Again

So...back to reality. And here we are.

A solid week of autumn color, Ozark hills, and hot water.

Accommodations ranged from a tent in the woods to a - gasp - $200 a night hotel/bath house/former bordello (complete with a neon sign outside in the shape of a penis).

What fun.

Took the waters in Hot Springs; did a little shopping in Eureka Springs. Communed with nature and our pillows.

Home again...and grateful for a job with paid vacation. (Hell, grateful - period. I had a long stretch of unemployment once, so I know too well what that feels like...an experience too many are now suffering.)

Like I said, back to reality...

Getting Out of Dodge...

If I can make it through the day, Mr. Demosthenes and I are heading off to another patch of woods: specifically, the Ozarks. More specifically: we're heading for the "sprangs" (that's Arkansan for springs).

We've kept our tax refund in a safe place (buried next to the cluster oak in the woods) and have dithered for months about how to spend it. The Black Hills? North Carolina? What to do?

We've earmarked the money (ooo-bad word) for a vacation. And we're making ourselves spend it on us. (Not our usual inclination - any $$$s usually go into our money pit of a house).

We're overworked, overtired, occasionally overwraught. Battered body and soul. It's time to head for the springs.

Others around the world understand the healing power of the baths. I guess Americans just move too fast.

So tomorrow we're going to pack up the truck and head south. I found a new scenic drive we've not taken before, and we're bringing our equiment to camp along the way.

The ultimate destination: the Arlington Hotel in Hot Springs. We've signed up for two two-day packages, which includes a couple of free baths and massages. (The Bath Department - circa the 20's - is on the 3rd floor. You just get on the elevator in your bathrobe and voila'. You're there.)

We've done this a couple times before and it's WONDERFUL. We usually wind up spending our first couple days either in hot water, eating off the room service menu, or sleeping.

My idea of vacation heaven.

Debate #3

A little bit of new ground broken, but not much. I heard a couple details from both Obama and McCain last night, but again - not much.

I liked what Michael Beschloss said last night on PBS' post-debate analysis: that when a candidate goes on the attack, he is the one most diminished. Especially when his opponent seems cool as the proverbial cucumber in the face of whatever...

I hope that's true. I hope that - whoever wins the election - the rest of us realize what a mess we're in, decide to get over ourselves, and focus on what's really important.

Recommendation: PBS is a welcome refuge from the self-important chatterers on the commercial networks. Their analysis - following the debates and on election night - is thoughtful and balanced. What a relief...

Fall, Falling, Fallen

A cold front's moving through and rain is falling. It's been cloudy all day and now evening is falling, too.

Funny how your sense of smell can trigger strong memories. Tonight - for the first time this season - I smelled fall.

The earthy aroma of fallen leaves and wet dirt.

Sunday Morning Rants

* Is the election over yet????? My God, this is going on FOREVER.

* I wrote a few weeks ago that I thought I'd probably like Gloria Squitiro if I met her outside of City Hall. (I tend to like earthy, outspoken women - being one myself.)

After the incident at KCI, I've changed my mind.

Throwing her weight around, being "snotty and sarcastic" (as the skycap testified), threatening the rage of the mayor's office at two people just doing their jobs, are NOT the kinds of behaviors of which I approve.

And does she remember 9/11? Jeez....

* Is this what the start of the Great Depression felt like for my grandparents? Too bad they're no longer here to share that experience. I could use the advice.

* Screw the finger-pointing. BOTH parties are to blame. The subprime mess started in the Clinton administration with an effort to get those who couldn't really qualify into houses of their own. Then Bush loaded up that program even more. A noble idea - but......

Add to that the GOP anathema toward regulation and, well, here we are.

* Back to the Funkhousers: the mayor has managed to make himself completely irrelevant. Notice the recent spate of 12 to 1 votes? The City Council is obviously moving on without him. All he has left is the bully pulpit and, when your colleagues are ignoring you, YOU DON'T MATTER ANYMORE. Even Deb Hermann and Bill Skaggs - one time allies - have gone over to the other side, voting with the rest of the councilmembers.

What I thought was principle turns out to be massive stubborness.

* And is anybody as scared as I am at the way this election has turned? Whack jobs yelling "Kill him" and "Off with his head" at the latest McCain-Palin rallies...as those two candidates try to turn him into 'the other'?


To hell with it all. I'm going for a walk in the woods and relish in the fact that Mother Nature bats last.