My grandmother, Elizabeth Sullivan Nardi, died two weeks ago at age 91. I read in her obituary that after she graduated from high school she worked at the Grit Newspaper in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. I had no idea anyone on my dad’s side of the family had any sort of a career in journalism. I didn’t have time to ask my grandfather what she did at the paper. I assume it was some sort of administrative work, but even still, it was fun to know that she and I had shared that kind of experience in our lives.
Nanny, as we nine grandkids called her, was my godmother and I her namesake—Elizabeth is my first name. She and my grandfather, Francis Anthony Nardi, moved into their small but brand-new brick bungalow in Harrisonburg, Virginia, in 1946, raised seven kids there, and until this summer when my grandmother suffered a stroke and moved to a nursing home, lived the respectable, small-town, middle-class life together. They were married for an unbelievable 67 years. Their house on 310 New York Avenue was just a few blocks from my junior high and high school, and so I spent lots of lunch hours and weekdays after school hanging out with Nanny and Pop-Pop. They were wonderful to my two older sisters and me—always proud of whatever we were up to and happy to have us around.
A few years ago, Nanny’s diabetes began to take its toll on her body, while dementia set in to play tricks on her mind. She had finally quit smoking on her 83rd birthday, and we all got a kick out of how she swore it was the reason she started feeling so cruddy after all those years of relatively good health. Thankfully, my aunt and several uncles were around to take care of Nan as her health declined. Pop is very healthy for 92 years old, but his knee aches a lot and, hell, it’s hard enough taking care of your own self at that age. I’ve often thought of how remarkable it is that they were able to stay in their home, and our family is grateful for the love and sacrifice their kids made to see to it that they were together for as long as possible.
When I saw Nanny for the final time last November, she was confined to a walker and spent most of her days nodding off in a recliner. As always, Pop wasn’t more than a holler away, poking around on the computer he’d discovered with joy a few years back. She was mostly blind and deaf, and we talked loudly and repeated ourselves for the hour or so we spent with her. She remembered who I was, though, and marveled at how far we’d driven to visit. We probably told her about the 1,000-mile trip from Wisconsin to Virginia four or five times that afternoon—she was always amazed by each rendition.
After I got back from the funeral last week, I was cleaning out some files and stumbled on a children’s book by a local author, Jeannie L. Johnson. It’s called Do You Have A Moon At Your House? and it’s the tale of a young girl named Madison, who is bewildered by her grandmother’s struggle with Alzheimer’s disease. The title is the question Grandma poses to Madison in the final passage of the book, after they share a lovely moment looking through a telescope one evening. “I felt it was a perfect story to help children learn about this painful disease that takes their loved ones away in degrees,” writes Johnson in the postscript, who also reveals that the book is based on the true story of her mother’s battle with Alzheimer’s. Johnson’s nephew, Lukas Gaffey, complements her very nice writing with lovely illustrations that capture the heart of the story. It’s a warm tribute to Johnson’s mother, and I’ll keep it around in case I have any friends or family who might benefit from the story’s intent.
As I read Johnson’s book I thought of my own grandmother’s memory loss over the last few years. It really bugged her, and she was harder on herself than I thought she would be when she couldn’t conjure up a name or finish a thought. I suppose … Nanny was no dummy. She knew what was happening to her and she didn’t like it one bit.
I’m pretty sure my grandmother’s stint at the Grit Newspaper was one of the last jobs she ever held. She was your typical 1950s housewife, busy raising six sons and a daughter like society expected. My uncles told some great stories at the funeral. My favorite is the one about how she’d pump up the boys before a big game. My dad and his brothers were short and skinny, so the pep talks had to be good. “It’s not about the dog in the fight,” she’d tell them. “It’s about the fight in the dog.” That’s pretty much how my grandmother lived her final days. I know they weren’t easy but she lived them with dignity and surrounded by love. Nanny was a tough broad, with lots of grit. I’m gonna miss her.
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