Nana’s house

I was lucky to have a Nana to visit when I was growing up. My two sisters and I would go up to Nana’s house in the woods of Maine. My people always called it “the real Maine” meaning not the wealthier “vacationer” towns on the coast. At Nana’s house we ate potatoes mixed with butter, green beans, a dash of salt and pepper, and maybe a pork chop or a chicken leg. Nana was a terrific baker - I seem to remember her always with her bib apron on, a mixing bowl in her hands and a story on her lips. One of Nana’s sisters, our Great-Aunt Maudie, lived in a house up the street. One day Nana told us that the house next to Aunt Maudie’s was built by her father, our Pappa. He was one of the founding fathers of the paper mill two streets below this very house we’re standing in, she added, her round blue eyes twinkling at our amazement. By that time she’d finished mixing the dough for her famous whoopie pies - two cakey buns of chocolate surrounding a center of sweet filling made of sugar and shortening - and popped them in the oven. Then over to the “junk room” door behind the kitchen she went. She pulled out the wringer washing machine which was a pot-bellied circular affair with a top that looked like a pot lid. In went the Ivory soap flakes, in went the water and then she’d crank that baby up good with her strong arms, once in a while pushing her glasses back up her nose as she went. When the sudsy motion was done, over to the sink she’d bring the long black snake - I mean, hose - at the side of the thing and plop it into the sink, then turn on the little motor at the bottom of the “pet” and gurgle gurgle gurgle out would rush all the water. Well, not all the water because the clothes were still soaking wet. That’s when the wringer-mangler came into action: Nana took each article of clothing and offered it to the mangler to press out all the water. When all the clothes had been squeezed, she picked up the basket of wet clothes and we all trekked out into the bright green light of summer. When we were tall enough to reach it, we’d help her hang the clothes with wooden clothespins pushed onto the thick rope strung between two large oak trees. It was a lulling, lingering time of safety, of ease, of comfort.