By Betsy Moore 
I remember my nana still in her nightgown sitting on a tall, metal step stool in her tiny kitchen drinking coffee early in the morning. I can picture the way the sun came through the window hitting her face as she sipped at the steamy mug. I was probably six years old.
I remember my nana joining my parents and sisters and me for a week at Bethany Beach, Delaware. I can picture her outside on the balcony looking over at the ocean and smiling. I was probably seven years old.
I remember my mom in her bedroom hiding tears from my sisters and me. She just got word that my nana had a heart attack and then later suffered from a stroke. I remember family drama about where nana was going to live. I remember watching the Wizard of Oz at my aunt and uncle’s house in West Virginia while my mom visited with her mom in a back room set up for Nana.
I remember Nana moving. I remember visiting Nana in a scary nursing home. I used to dread going there and can still remember the smell of the place. I was probably 12 years old.
I remember my mom holding my nana’s hand. My mom ached watching her mother struggle. I can still picture the way my mom’s young hand looked wrapped around my nana’s wrinkled, aging hand. Now, my mom and I have those same hands with the bulging veins. My mother hated the fact that my nana was a four-hour drive away. She hated living in another town. I was probably 14 years old.
I remember the day my nana died. I was in the middle of studying for finals in my freshman year of college. I remember wondering if I could skip the funeral because I didn’t know my nana well. Of course, I went to the funeral. I guess I moved my finals. Funny how at the moment that was a big deal but years later I don’t remember the details. I remember my mom and her eight siblings mourning the death of their mom. I was 19 years old.
I remember my nana being cremated and my mother’s oldest sister carrying Nana’s ashes. I remember looking at old pictures, listening to stories, and being in awe that my nana had nine kids. I was 19 years old.
My nana raised nine kids, pretty much by herself. Her husband, my grandfather, died unexpectedly. She had tough decisions to make after his death. She struggled to make ends meet. My mom was 14 years old.
My mom makes the best apple pie. Still to this day, her pie is the absolute best and loved by all. She tells us she learned to make pies after her dad died. It was a form of therapy for her while she was mourning the loss of her dad at a young age. My mom was 16 years old.
I remember rocking my oldest to sleep late at night completely stressed out, exhausted, and panicked. I called my mom to vent and said, “Mom, I don’t think I can do this!” My mom answered, “You have to do it and yes, you can.”
I remember thinking about my nana who raised nine kids by herself and compared her journey with mine. I was struggling with one kid. Nana had nine. I knew at that moment that I could do hard things. I know that God gave me strength that night from my nana. I was 29 years old.
My mom’s grandma name is Nona because Nana was taken. My mom has always been content with a simple life. She married young. She raised us three girls and truly tried to give us everything we needed and desired. She went back to school when we were in high school to become a nurse.
She used to love to go to Marshall’s and find cute clothes for my girls when they were little. She has never been one to care about designer bags for herself but was thrilled when we kids bought her a Coach bag. She loves to read. She makes a mean apple pie to this day.
As a grandma to seven grandkids, she is always willing to help out when needed but she also enjoys time to herself. She has said to me, “It was good enough for my mom, so it is good enough for me.” I think she is who she is because of her own mom, my nana.
My mom sits in her dining room after dinner playing Monopoly Deal with my daughters. The sun hits her face through the window as she laughs when my youngest beats her at the game. My mom is 69 years old and looks and sounds and acts just like my nana. Her hands look just like my nana’s used to look. My youngest says, “Nona, can you make an apple pie soon?”
Nana, I didn’t know you well, but I know you through my mom.
by Kirstyn Wegner 
by Stephanie Ross 
by Jennifer Ross 
