Chapters in the book...

Grandma. Granny. Mimi.  Moma.  Nana.  Tutu.  These are just a few of the names I've considered for the next act, version, era, and/or iteration of my life.

I guess I really didn't think much about this next section.  I try to stay in the moment, not dwelling too much in the past on things I can't change, and not dwelling too much in the future, on things I don't really want to know.

I don't consider the future a mystery....rather it's more like chapters in a book.  Some chapters are great page-turners, some are not, yet I do have some control over what is mine to write, based on what and how I think.  That's the kicker...how I think, what I think, is the key to.....everything.

But now this event has happened. My quite new grandson deserves something simple that he can call me. My mom loved hearing her second name, Nana, from her grandkids.  My dad loved hearing his second name, Papa, from his grandkids.  I guess I could mess up Cadel, my grandson, and have him call me Papa.  No, that's just not right.

My own Grandmothers left me somewhat in a conumdrum.

Grandma Willson raised four boys and one girl mostly on her own.  Those kids were raised with terrific memories of the small home in Santa Monica, located close enough to the beach where all of them learned to love the ocean and surfed and sailed, long before the Beach Boys even existed.

She was the wonderful grandma.  Quick to send her grandkids $2 on each birthday.  Quick to ask us if we wanted either a Hersey Bar with or without nuts, or a U-No candy bar.  She knew how to get into our hearts. She could barely afford any of the gifts.  Every one of her own kids earned their way through college.  Everyone was successful at jobs and with families, but one was not good at winning at life.

Grandma Hunter (Blanche) and Grandpa Hunter (Grant, but was called Curly - because he was bald) always seemed a bit distant.   They lived mostly in the mid-west, then came to CA, Santa Monica in particular. They had four kids and one was a boy.

My mom would tell us stories how the family would hide in the attic and be very quiet, when the bill collectors came around.  And when the grandparents came to visit...they brought dried fruit.  Sorry...that did not work for me. And they didn't come too often.  Not much in common with their four grandkids.

So..based on the preceding, 'grandma' was not an option.

But Nana it is, because my kids have wonderful memories of their grandparents, including their Tutu, Carl's mom.

Gosh, speaking of Carl, I wonder what he'd want to be called.  Like I said I try to stay in the moment, not dwelling too much in the past on things I can't change, and not dwelling too much in the future, on things I don't really want to know.   But I will think on this.

Live richly, Nana

Comments

  1. What a beautiful essay, Marilyn. I am so glad that you have this bundle of joy to love, and Cadel has an awesome Nana! Please call the next time you're in town. I would love to see you again very soon!!

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