Still Missing Nana: a reprint
Eight years ago this week, Nana died. Here's what I need to tell you about her:

I used to go camping with Nana at Silver Lake Provincial Park. When camping, she'd always pin her money to the elastic of her underpants. "Panties. Ladies wear panties," she told me. "Don't ladies have wallets then?" I sassed her! She smiled, and corrected me again. "No, ladies have pocket books."

Nana told me that ladies always have an extra $20 tucked away in said pocket books, for emergencies. Also, ladies always make sure they have "car fare."

Nana let me befriend and name (read: feed) all the campground chipmunks. This was a magic thing because my mom never let me do this (filthy germ-ridden beasts). I named most of them Chippy, of course, and would toss them little bits of hamburger bun or apple. Loyal readers who know how many neighbourhood cats I've adopted and re-named (read: feed) find this in no way surprising.

Nana made really, really good roast beef.
Nana liked a rye and water, one ice cube.
Nana read every library book in the city, I think.
Nana covered her hands in Nivea cream and wore little white gloves to bed sometimes.
Nana's favourite colour was blue. Mine too.
Nana watched Sunday Mass on TV, as soon as she got back from attending Mass.
Nana collected wee brass bells. I have them now, in my dining room.
Nana met Mr. Crabby only once, right before we were married, right before she died.
They talked about steak. Rare steak.

Nana hated nylon stockings! The funeral home insisted that we bring some along with the outfit we were to choose for her funeral. I said, this isn't right. She'd hate this.

I took a tablecloth from her home back to Toronto with me. Not a special tablecloth, just a serviceable green one that she kept on the kitchen table. I wrapped it up very tightly in tissue paper, and tucked it away on a closet shelf. Every so often, over the next year or so, I'd unwrap it and burry my face in the tablecloth, because it still smelled like her home, like my Nana.

We didn't know she was dying. She kept this from us. During what would be my last telephone conversation with Nana, I told her for the first time that I loved her.