My mother’s mother was named Belle, a name she never liked—perhaps because it meant “beautiful” and she was not. Belle was what you would call a handsome woman with a large nose, wide mouth, and high forehead.
She didn’t like the name “Grandmother” either because it made her feel old, so we grandchildren called her “Nanna.” I didn’t think about her age; I thought about her kind smile and sly sense of humor—and the always-full box of Scottish shortbread.
Nanna and Grandpa lived about a mile away when I was growing up, so I spent a lot of time at their house—which was a refuge from the uncertainties of my own family. On the old Victorian couch in Nanna’s living room or in one of the twin beds upstairs, I felt safe, accepted, loved.
She and I often sat together on the front porch, sipping gingerale and nibbling shortbread, while she told me about her early career as a teacher and her courtship by my grandfather. Now, all these years later, I realize how little I knew about her life—maybe ten percent—and what a big difference she made in mine. Ten percent—and yet it was enough.