I decided to meet Nan again through writing a few days ago, by writing an article about her, after having written a poem to her, which I will reveal to you at the end of this text, like the icing on the cake.
If there is a serene part of my childhood, I owe it to Nan.
Especially the winters were enchanting as she would carry me in my sleigh on holiday seasons while carolers wearing royal helmets and masked men would draw near me, unsuccessfully trying to scare me as nothing could frighten me when I was with her.
During the long winter nights we would cross stitch on etamine, crochet or pluck feathers, both bundled up in two counterpanes. Nan would read „Evening Star” to me in such a way as to make me believe I was that „most beautiful maid” from the poem (during those times I really was beautiful).
The only poem I did not like was „Penes the Turkey” by Vasile Alecsandri. My mom told Nan I must learn poems by heart and, for some unknown reason, Nan made me learn that poem which was unsuitable for my tender age of 5.
As years went by, I developed a strong dislike towards Alecsandri on account of that poem. But Nan would reveal other authors to me as well besides the two above mentioned.
She would invite a neighbour’s granddaughter to our place to read us from the Romanian textbook. Thus I took part in my first rural book club. The girl read „The Baby Chick” to us, a tearful story, and while she was reading, I was weeping and my Nan was crying too. I don’t recall whether the girl was weeping or not.
That moment reminds me of another instance in which I was weeping and Nan told me to stop it and I told her „Let the girl weep”, as if I was speaking about somebody else.
During springtime we would enjoy the pleasant scent of the hyacinths or tulips planted right in front of our house. We would enjoy them only until our afternoon nap when gipsies would enter the courtyard and steal our beautiful flowers, to my Nan’s sadness.
When strawberries began to ripen I took my bucket in the garden and fill it to the brim, eating them just as „Memories from my boyhood” ’s character ate cherries: raw, ripen, as they were.
In my Nan’s countryside, chickens used to be raised in a beanie, then cats would become their foster mothers. There was this harmony among birds and felines just like in the Garden of Eden.
There was only a dog, called The Queen, which disturbed the dumb creatures’ harmony as she used to bite her cubs by the eyes. I’ve never understood the reason why Nan did not give up on such a degenerate mother as The Queen was.
As far as I was concerned, I was lucky with that dog.
Once, when I was very, very young, I took some colorful cushions with me and I made myself at home in her kennel. Nan was desperately seeking me everywhere, even in the toilet, until I myself exited the „royal” kennel.
Over the years my Nan raised many dogs, which she would always name The Queen if they were females and Tarzan if they were males. Many years later the reading of the novel A Hundred Years of Solitude, where I discovered many characters bearing the same names, reminded me of that unwritten countryside law of giving the animals the same names.
When she would cut a hen, Nan would give me its best parts — the legs — and I would feed the cats with them, by throwing the legs under the table, while I used to eat the remaining polenta with oil.
Nan was not very good at cooking, she would say she was going to make pancakes, but they looked and tasted like flat cakes. Yet for me, her granddaughter, they were good nevertheless, since they were made by Nan.
In the summertime we would bring the goats to graze in the forest. What Nan didn’t know was that their menu also comprised orange juice powder and pineapple candy. I will never forget the goats’ bold look when they ate sweets from my hand! While being in the woods I would unsuccessfully chase dragonflies.
Nan was happy to have me around and that’s why she would often sing old romantic songs from her youth like „At the white cottage” and „Trurli, Trurli, dear…”
Sometimes there were troubles too, like that instance when I wanted to build a cottage under the windowsill and a stone fell on my head. When Nan saw my bleeding forehead she gave me first aid improvising and patching me up with a pair of underclothing for lack of some bandages.
I used to do a lot of mischief when I was a child, that’s why Nan nicknamed me Satan. Whether I was Satan or not, when the priest came to toss holy water on us, I hid behind the wood stove and remained there until he left.
All these stories cheered me up and made me recall the best time of my childhood.
I finish the text about those magic moments with the English translation of a poem I wrote for my dear Nan whom I see with my mind’s eye knitting woolen socks for her granddaughter.
The little knit slippers are ready!
My nan is knitting my childhood:
Forward stitch backward stitch.
She unravels the yarn in snowballs,
Snowmen
And one horse open sleigh.
She purls so much love
With the needles.
The little knit slippers are ready!
(Poem translated by Maria-Nicoleta)
Note: „Memories of My Boyhood” is the English translation of the Romanian book Amintiri din copilărie, by Ion Creangă, a reference book for all Romanian children).
The Source of the Painting:
https://savvycollector.com/products/2236-grandmother-and-her-granddaughter-outdoors-by-jack-tobaahe-gene
Read Full Post »
clipe de reverie 