My Last Column

All good things must come to an end, including this column. I’ve enjoyed sharing memories with you over the last year, and dedicate this last article to my Nana Stella.

Her story is one shared by many Salem families, whose roots were planted here thanks to a brave choice by prior generations to come to America for a better life. My grandmother was the chosen one in her family, sent here by boat as a young teen, never to see her family in Poland again. On that journey, she met her husband, and they bonded over a combination of seasickness and homesickness.

Growing up at Nana’s house, we learned that life was about working hard and providing for your family. She did not show love by showering you with hugs and kisses, or tickling you until you cried "Uncle". She said, "I love you" with her cooking, and we’d say "I love you too" by asking for seconds. Nana could whip up a meal out of a chicken neck and a piece of salt pork, so good you’d ask for more. She could scale, de-bone and fry up a piece of flounder fresh from Salem Harbor so fast it would barely stop flipping around long enough to eat, and so good you’d run out and try to catch some more.

Fluent in Polish, she spoke only English at home so she could learn the language. The exception was Polish Mass, which I dutifully attended with her Saturday afternoons. I can still feel the rib poke she’d give me as I nodded off to the lullaby of indecipherable Polish prayers. Later that night, we’d watch the Lawrence Welk Variety Show under the guise that my Nana was babysitting me, when I knew it was really the other way around.

A proud and independent woman, her life changed the day she was mugged walking home alone from downtown Salem. Not only did they take her change purse; they took her quality of life when they roughed her up as she fought to keep her pocketbook- and her dignity- before they knocked her down to the ground. Back then, doctors made house calls, and I remember him somberly walking to her bedroom with his black medical bag, and hearing guarded whispers about her condition through the closed door.

Despite her life of toil and tribulation, or perhaps because of it, there was one thing my Nana did enjoy- a good trick. She would always pick the "trick" when she had a choice of "trick or treat" and loved April Fools Day. She would devise the lamest, most obvious tricks imaginable- like putting flour in our shoes or telling us there was a spot on our shirt- and howl with laughter when we pretended to fall for it. But later in life when she was in a nursing home and the days ran together in a thread of monotony, she lost track of what the date was. Which made it even easier to pull a fast one on her when April Fool’s Day would roll around.

I remember the last April Fool’s Day trick I played on her. I called to say I couldn’t visit because her favorite coffee shop had burnt down and the roads were blocked by fire engines. Not very funny, but it was all I could come up with at the time. She was worried about the fire, sad that I couldn’t visit, and disappointed about her coffee- until I walked in a few minutes later, coffee in hand, and said "April Fools!" She hesitated for a minute, and then her chest began to heave silently. I thought for a moment that she was crying, but then realized she was laughing so hard she wasn’t making a sound. Perhaps she was laughing because it was funny, but more likely she was laughing just because she was thankful to have something to laugh about. "You think you funny" she finally whispered to me. And I agreed, I did.

My Nana died in July of 1991 at the age of 98, but I think of her every April Fools Day when I play this trick on my co-workers. The morning of April 1st, I send a note alerting them about some type of disaster that will surely ruin their day, instructing them to go the bottom of the message and/or open the attachment for more details, which of course says APRIL FOOLS. And every year the joke is on me when I realize that no one in the office reads my messages to the end, and they all go into instant panic mode, which spreads like wildfire until I’m laughing so hard I really do start to cry. Partly beause its that funny; partly because no one reads my memos.

So this year I couldn’t miss an opportunity to honor my Nana by reaching out to as many people as possible, and find out how many of you really do read my articles to the end. And if you made it this far, you probably figured out this is not my last column, but it is April Fool’s Day.