Leaving a Legacy

Nanny with my Aunt Terri

The week before last, when my Aunt Nancy was in town, she took my mom and me to eat lunch at my favorite spot. We walked in just ahead of the new owner's parents. Her father had been my grandmother's boss when she was alive. After we were seated they came over and my mom introduced them to my aunt, telling them she was Melva's sister. Eyes light up when someone mentions my Nanny. Everyone, and I mean, everyone, I've ever met who knew her, loved her. Loved her deeply. As we left the restaurant we stopped to talk to the owner. My aunt told her she was Melva's sister and Samantha gave her a big hug. It was if by hugging Aunt Nancy she was somehow getting to hug my Nanny again. As if a little part of Nanny still resided in her next of kin, and some sort of magic could connect them again. If it were that way, I'd never, ever stop hugging my Aunt Nancy or my mom or my cousins. I miss Nanny that much.

Even now, nearly 17 years after her passing, people still love to talk about her, still love her as if she was still here with us. I cannot tell you how many people have stopped me and asked me if I was Melva's granddaughter (it's because I'm my mother's twin, and if they knew my Nanny they knew my mom). When I tell them I am they invariably go on and on about the kind of woman she was and how much they loved her. There's nothing like being told how much someone loves a person you also loved. And one thing's for sure, my Nanny was well loved and loved well.

Four years ago, when I went with my best friend to her first ultrasound, the nurse attending her was a former co-worker of my Nanny's. When she realized who I was she gushed on and on about food my grandmother had prepared and a blanket she made when the woman had a baby and the shower she had for her. All these things happened more than twenty years ago but the gratitude still spilled fresh from this woman's heart. Nanny had that kind of effect on people.

She loved in simple, but extravagantly beautiful ways. She was an incredible cook (and no one, to this day, can match her fried chicken)and loved her family and friends and co-workers with kitchen creations that warmed the heart and filled the belly. She was also a seamstress, a party hostess and a bookkeeper. She was the oldest of five, and a mother of five and a grandmother (at the time of her death) of five. I have a feeling that each of us thought we were her favorite. That's the only way to love that many people. Love em like each one is your favorite. There is surely no greater legacy.

I want to be like that. For a long time I've believed the best way for me to leave a legacy is to write. Surely what I put on this blog or in my journals will outlive me. But what I wonder is, will it matter? Will it matter like the things my Nanny did? Will people approach my grandchildren thirty or forty years from now and ask them if they are Kara's? Will their eyes light up as the recount what I did to care for them and how I loved them and how much that meant?

Because if I never get published or never am read by more than the twenty or so people who claim to follow my blog I won't be a failure if I can dare to love like my Nanny loved. And I know it will cost me. It cost my Nanny. You aren't first in your life when you love like she loved. You stay up late and you get up early and you slave over hot stoves and you clean up after grandkids and you don't let on that you feel sick, even when you have cancer, and you make everyone feel like they are the most special person in the room. That will cost you something. But it's better than being famous and it's harder than being published and it's richer than making millions.

Well loved and loved well. That was Nanny's legacy. And I hope, one day, it will be mine.