Nanna's Last Trip

My grandmother died in March of 2000, just two weeks shy of a full twenty years of widowhood. I think Nanna chafed under the bonds of Papa’s illness and frailty in his last few years, so when he died on Easter Sunday in 1980, she was free again. She would pack a small bag, (she traveled VERY light) and put the dog in the car, and take off. (By the way, the dog had a carseat that boosted her up to see out the window from a reclining position.) We would answer the phone to hear Nanna say, “hi, I’m in Yuma, I’ll be home in a few days,” or “I’m in Santa Barbara, see you Friday.”

Nanna had some brave and adventurous blood in her veins. Her father disguised himself as a Catholic priest and escaped his homeland of Bohemia (later to become Czechoslovakia) and impressment in the Russian Army. Her mother, from a “rich” family who owned land, came to America against her family’s wishes, selling her long blond hair to a wigmaker to pay for her ticket. The two met in the Minnesota community of Bohemians, where they married, had five children and became naturalized citizens. Nanna was the oldest, and the only girl. She spent a lot of time caring for her little brothers. I think that had a lot to do with her desire to travel at will.

I remember wonderful trips with her when I was a child, mostly quick, weekend jaunts. One time, in October, we flew up to San Francisco for the three-day holiday weekend. When we arrived, we rented a car, something sporty with bucket seats and the gearshift in a console between. We got in the car and Nanna said, “I don’t think I can drive this one.” (This from the woman who, several decades before, repaired her own car’s broken fan belt by rolling off her stocking and tying it over the pulleys.) The rental agent assured her it was an automatic transmission, and we were off. We had a wonderful time, eating fish and nibbling Ghirardelli chocolate. We got home Monday evening, only to discover it wasn’t a holiday after all, and I had missed school. Thank you, Christopher Columbus.

Nanna passed away on a Saturday night at a nursing home, four years after falling and breaking a hip. (Or, did her hip break first, causing the fall? Hard to tell with osteoporosis.) (Take your CALCIUM out there, folks!) The trauma of the break seemed to intensify and accelerate the dementia she was beginning to show, and what turned out to be her final few years were spent in the hazy frontier between yesterday and yesteryear. After receiving the news of her passing, we gathered to “say” good-bye, kiss her cheek.

The following Monday morning, my mom called the mortuary to see if there was any paperwork to finish. The mortuary had no idea why she was calling. So she called the nursing home immediately. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY HUSBAND’S MOTHER’S BODY?!” Needless to say, they were not prepared for that inquiry. They promised to call right back. When they did, we learned the nursing home had called the wrong mortuary. The correct mortuary was dispatched to pick up Nanna’s body from their competitors.

For approximately thirty-six hours, we didn’t know where Nanna was. But we didn’t know we didn’t know. I think Nanna was having a great chuckle at our expense. She just had to get in one last trip.

Esther Anna Doane (nee Blecha) 1907-2000
Love you, Nanna!