I loved my Grandma or Nanny as she was called. She had those smiling eyes that people talk about. I remember her having red hair and then blonde and then red and then blonde. She got perms. She smelled like any number of Avon products, scotch mints and Craven A’s. Her claim to fame in the family was that she never inhaled. It’s still a hotly debated topic. She loved her Y & R (The Young And The Restless) and you did not call during “her show”. Her favourite character was Victor Newman who she thought was quite a catch. Christmas was eagerly discussed in July – she was crazy for it. My best Christmases were always with her. Nanny was a savvy card player and would destroy everyone in Euchre -unless your were lucky enough to have her as your partner. She was also a nighthawk, she loved staying up late and sleeping in. She held a long tradition of being a party girl and could outlast most. At 78 years old she was doing shots at my brother’s 21st birthday party. The more the merrier is what she’d say. She loved the noise and chaos of people having fun around her. She enjoyed Laura Secord French Mints, Spumanti Bambino, homemade rice pudding and a good cup of tea. If she could’ve had the finer things she would’ve. My grandmother was pretty horrible with money and therefore she and my grandfather had very little. The thing about Nanny is that I never noticed this she until I was much older and living on my own. My grandmother always showered me with whatever she could and looking back now, I know it wasn’t much but it felt like everything. That was my Nanny’s gift to me; when she was with me, she made me feel like everything. She was genuinely excited to be spending time with me. With my grandmother there was always a sense of fun and light heartedness, which as I kid I desperately needed. Life in my family home was heavy and filled with anxiety so my grandmother’s arrival felt like a vacation.

 Nanny always lived far away from me – except near the end of her life. My first years were spent in northern Manitoba and she lived in London Ontario. We moved back into the province when I was four although it didn’t feel like Timmins and London were in the same province. It’s dawned on me recently that I always felt close to her – no matter how far away she was. That’s the kind of unconditional love I felt she gave me. Nanny was like a furnace; she radiated warmth. Her hugs were the best because she really meant it. I know I got hugs from my parents but they were complicated and always attached to something. My grandmother’s hugs were not complicated; they were of pure love and adoration. I didn’t have to do anything. I didn’t have to earn those hugs. I didn’t have to get good grades, wash the dishes or lose weight. When I felt my ugliest my grandmother told me I was beautiful. She was the only one who ever said that to me and I knew she meant it. For those brief and powerful moments I didn’t feel so hideous. She took me to the grocery store and would buy me whatever I wanted. It was ok to eat the Frootloops she bought for me. She took me to McDonald’s and I ate without guilt – just like the other kids. I told her that I when I grew up that I was going to move to London, grow my hair long and work at McDonald’s. She thought that was an excellent idea. She thought I was smart and funny. My grandmother took me on my first trip to Wonderland, Marineland and Storybook Gardens – The Big Three in my world. I thought I was the luckiest kid in the world. She let me be.

At twelve years old I was able to take the train with my cousin and visit my grandmother – without my parents. This was the start of my summer retreat until I was fourteen. It was only a couple of weeks but it was an escape from my family where I was suffocating and completely invisible at the same time. My younger brother Mark had just been born and that same summer my older brother Paul would be moving out. My years of fear, violence and chaos in my parents’ house were coming to an end but the spotlight was simply moved from my older brother to my younger brother. I was still part of the scenery at home. In my grandmother’s world though, she saw me – even if it was through rose coloured glasses. I relished those visits with her. I could do whatever I wanted. No one was going to criticize me with Nanny around. If my grandfather dared to open his mouth about my weight (which he was known to do) Rive would tear into him. I never had else anyone defend me like that.

Other than my parents and me, she was the only other person who understood what life was like with my brother Paul. She spent time with us and had a great compassion for Paul’s story and the rest of us caught in it. My grandmother didn’t seem to be afraid of Paul (although I’m sure she was) and she would be straight with him. She had boundaries with Paul, something that my parents certainly didn’t have.  Paul ruled our world but Nanny wouldn’t let him when she was around. They were mystified as to why he would listen to her and not to them. He would apologize to her; this was unheard of. She was a brave woman. No one else in the family wanted to look after us but she did. In fact, I think she really wanted to. I still remember when my parents won a trip to Acapulco in 1980 and she traveled from London to take care of us for ten days. That’s still amazing to me. What a huge responsibility to take on, looking after a pubescent boy who had violent outbursts with unpredictable mood swings and a scared, nine year old girl. This is who my grandmother was. She was the person who would give you the shirt of her back or her last penny. My grandmother took various family and friends into her home over the years - people who’d end up on her doorstep out of the blue. My brother Paul was one of them when he picked up and left home at 16. People must’ve known that they could count on her and that they’d be safe. Some people took advantage of that generosity - her own son being one of the worst but that never stopped her from opening her heart up over and over again.  She gave people second, third and fourth chances. That was just the way she was. I carry this with me and I’ve tried to open my heart, to be more like her and I feel guilty that I can’t do it easily. It’s frightening opening myself up to an unknown. I sometimes feel like if people take too much there’ll be nothing left of me. Maybe it’s because my brother Paul did take alot and so I’m still guarding my heart.

Nanny was fiercely loyal when it came to her grandchildren. She was always on my side because I was her granddaughter. She really tried to see things from my perspective and she was an ally. I’m sure if I’d done something completely unacceptable she would’ve given me hell and I also know that she would’ve forgiven me too. I experienced this watching her with her my brother Paul. For so many reasons I wish that Nanny was still here. I can bet that the falling out that Paul and I had two years ago would be over now if she was still living. She would’ve been honest with Paul and she would’ve told him that he needed to apologize to me. She adored Paul and she also knew that he wasn’t stupid – he could handle the responsibility for his mistakes. I try to remember this about her so the onslaught of guilt coming from my parents doesn’t consume me. I think she’d understand why I can’t have a relationship with Paul now. But she’s not here; the rift remains and I stand alone in the family.

 I think the most important influence that was passed onto me from my grandmother is what I’ve called “The Legacy of Listening”. My grandmother was known to be a good listener. It was her thing. People always went to Nanny to pour their hearts out. Her phone was always ringing or someone was knocking on her door. She really connected with people and she was like a magnet. My mother also shares this legacy, she as notorious for it as my grandmother was. What’s painful is that neither my grandmother nor my mother could listen to their own children or connect with them in the ways that they needed. This is the piece that I carry. I struggle as a mother to stay conscious and do my utmost to listen to my daughter, allowing her to be who she is and to let her be truly seen – temper tantrums and all.

My perception of listening has changed drastically. Growing up I realized that if I listened to people’s problems, they’d see me or at least I thought they’d see me. I watched my grandmother and mother do it. Of course now I know that in most instances I became a vessel and they weren’t actually seeing me at all. I was recreating my family dynamic with drama happening all around me with me as the backdrop. Many of these so-called friendships were exhausting but I didn’t know any other way of being. I was needed. Perhaps some of this might be true for my grandmother. Her father walked out on her and her four siblings when she was still young. I can’t imagine the hardships she must’ve endured growing up. I think in many ways people needing her is what kept her going – maybe she felt seen too. My hope is to take this Legacy of Listening and make it my own by finding a healthy balance, gaining new wisdom and transforming it into healing. I think she would love what I’m trying to do. I know she’ll be with me when I start seeing clients. I can imagine her sitting with her legs crossed with one foot bouncing gently, smoking a cigarette (but not inhaling) and a cup of tea - listening.

            The laneway leading to Nana's back door was long and skinny. I would be wiggling in the back seat as my father edged the car slowly up to the tiny garage, trying not to scrape it against the brick walls on either side. As soon as we stopped I'd burst out of the car and run up the wooden steps to the back porch and into Nana's open arms.

            If there was an Olympic hugging event, Nana would have taken Gold. She was soft and strong and solid and I could hold on for as long as I wanted. Coming through the backdoor into her kitchen, the room I most associate with her, was coming home. It was bright and minimalist to the point of industrial with the exception of the wall behind her big stove - her wall of love.

Here she displayed our works of art: the earnest colourings, cut-and-pastings, paintings, and occasional calamities with macaroni and Elmer's glue produced by her grandchildren. Held up with yellowed scotch tape, every effort was proudly signed by the artist in our best printing. She would tell us that when she worked in her kitchen, she wanted to look up and think of us when we weren't there. There would be careful time spent at the dining room table providing her with my very best new effort for her kitchen wall before I left.

A visit with Nana had a number of themes: creativity, food, physical affection, pride and laughter. She had a big personality which she took into the world without hesitation or shame. In our annual September shoe shopping expedition, I followed her through the door of her favorite downtown store where she announced loudly that "I'm here with my granddaughter to buy her a pair of new shoes." I was then allowed to pick out whatever pair of shoes I liked with no scolding to be practical or need to please anyone but myself. Those shoes became my favorites for the next 12 months until it was time to get the next pair.

I remember her sailing into shops, restaurants and movie theatres where she commanded attention and got results. I bobbed in her wake, in awe of her confidence and energy. Spending time with her was like a wonderful rain in a desert: I felt myself unfolding and coming alive in the presence of her absolutely unconditional love and affection. She was the very definition of  a mama bear and being with her was the safest place in my world.

Nana was a depression era homemaker who could stretch a dollar astoundingly far. If there was a way to magically harness the integrity, hard work and ingenuity of that generation of women, we could turn today's economic problems around in a few months. Her kitchen was a hive of activity, producing plain but delicious food in a continuous flow of love and caring. No mystery about where I learned to equate food with comfort.

She did her housework to the sound of Elvis Presley blaring on the Hi-Fi, swiveling her hips as she wielded the dust mop. She recruited us to pick apples, crabapples and pears from the municipal fruit trees lining the canal in stealthy nighttime raids on dark summer evenings. 

And then there was lap time. Nana's lap was heaven on earth. I was cushioned by her bosomy softness and wrapped around by her joyful voice. I could do anything: poke her jowls, waggle the lose skin hanging from her biceps, count her age spots, examine her beaky nose and play with her big rhinestone earrings. She had no self consciousness about her age and how it re-shaped her body. When I asked her what the lose skin under her chin was for, she said "that's where I keep my money".

My favorite part of her was her hands: they were big, strong, thickly veined - a working woman's hands. She wore a dozen slim silver bangles on her left wrist that jingled as she moved. When her hands cupped my face or tucked my hand into hers, it was a lifeline.

Nana died when I was 13 years old, but her imprint on my life is permanent. I learned about love from her - both giving it and receiving it. As she tucked me into bed at night, she taught me to say my prayers: 'god bless daddy, god bless mommy, god bless all my sisters and brothers, god bless...' and the list went on - and on. I've just recently re-connected with this practice and I find it very powerful.

With all my nieces and nephews, I find myself just simply taking delight in them. I love taking them to a movie or shopping for a new book or going for a dog walk. When one of my nieces was struggling in her life, I opened my home to her for several years. That impulse came directly from my relationship with Nana - and it flew in the face of advice from a handful of family and friends who saw the situation as a fait accompli without hope of change. Nana's spirit of unconditional love made those years not perfect, but still a great gift to both my niece and me.

Nana showed me that troubles are not all that life holds - there is joy, laughter and creativity as well. I make my living in a creative business and I get much satisfaction from it. Work is often fun, and I am always seeking ways to make creative connections when launching into a new project.

And while I don't love everything about aging, I'm pretty comfortable with getting older. Nana's vitality and engagement with life as an old woman was formidable. She was out in the world with confidence and personality. What other people thought of her was the least of her concerns. Whether bartering at the farmer's market or harassing the city council for local improvements, her weapons were a quirky charm layered over a very stubborn will.

A sense of humour was another of her gifts. The last time I saw her, she burst into raucous laughter when I ran into the room and skidded across the floor on one of her handmade rag rugs. It's a wonderful memory of her throwing her head back and belly-laughing at my antics. One of my favorite traits in my family is our ability to laugh at ourselves - and that is a legacy she gave us all.

When I wasn't able to visit, she stayed in touch with loving letters. I collected and kept them all and still take them out to re-read. Each one begins with an over-the-top salutation like My Dearest Darling Wee Granddaughter. She filled them with little details of her life, her favorite memories of our last visit, her plans for the next time we would be together, and questions about what was happening in my life. Being no fool, she also tucked a crisp one dollar bill into every letter as a bribe to make sure I would write her back promptly.

I grew up in a family where my feelings of fear, anger and anxiety often threatened to overwhelm me. Nana was my salvation. I'm inexpressibly grateful that I was able to take in her love and hold onto it over the years.

On my path of learning toward becoming a therapist, when I think about how nervous I am about the prospect of working with clients, I can continue to draw on the life lessons I learned from her: an open and caring heart, a sense of humour, and a spirit of creativity are the foundation I will build on.

Iam in mid life and am blessed to still be able to hug my parents. While this body contact has changed in meaning for me, I am left breathless by its implications, given their failing health, eyesight, cognition, memory, bodily functions, "life power". Sometimes I just want to stay in the "resent mode", because that means they are still powerful over me, it defines our relationship, and I can handle the place they've relegated me to - child, helpless, useless, needing to be dominated, etc.

Now that they're feeble, sometimes helpless, repetetive, slow, I cannot resent them anymore...I see only their human-ness, their need for understanding, their fright, their terror at the unknown. There but for chronology go I. Go we all.

So with the hug comes compassion, dread, love,an attempt at patience, a prayer, perhaps another hug for good measure, until tomorrow. I see only older ones of us, just people who have struggled with demons, with or without help, a lifetime of shoulds and shouldn'ts and having their own resentments. I look at their watery eyes and want so badly to make contact with the light inside. Sometimes this happens but it feels unbearable for both of us so we look away. It does help to hug, to hold hands, to smile, because it fills in the gaps for that which remains unsaid. My struggle with coming to terms with my parents as people, and not my captors, or owners, or jailers, has been long and difficult, and continues to haunt me for its intricacy and simplicity. I appreciate this forum to explore the past through the future.