am 1230

When I was a kid I spent a lot of time at my grandmother's house. 

I shared the Big Wheel with my cousins.
Made blinker noises as I rode my hot pink bike with the flowered banana seat.
Spun out on the roller thing mechanics use to go underneath cars.
Sat in the seat of the John Deere riding lawn mower.
Rode in the basket on the back of Nana's 3-wheel bicycle.
Pumped my smaller cousins on Nana's 3-wheel bicycle.

My memories are great.  Nana was.....well, she was special.  Ornery as all get-out.  More spontaneous than anyone I've ever known.  And ornery as all get-out.

Widowed twice, the daughter of an abusive alcoholic, she maintained a strong faith.  And one seriously healthy sense of humor. 

She drove my mother insane.  And yet they loved each other fiercely.

Most of my memories involve my cousins.  Or involve a trip to see my cousins.  Or involve my aunts.  And many memories revolve around the kitchen. 

I even have her Betty Crocker plaid cookbook.  Where they still use words like oleo, and gelatin is the favorite dessert.  The margins have her handwriting in them.  And a postcard I sent her from Hawaii when I was 7 was found tucked between the tattered pages.

Nana always had name-brand food items.
My mom always bought generic.
Nana always closed cabinets quietly so I could sleep in whenever I spent the night.
My parents slammed cabinets so that I would realize daylight was burning.
Nana had shiney metallic cups, avocado green appliances, and a dainty cup next to the sink for her rings.
We had beige colored appliances.  (read: boring)

Nana had a clock radio in her kitchen.  Next to the sink.  And it was always set to AM 1230.  The Big Band station.

It is here that my love of swing dance and Big Band music started.

And tonight, while I cooked dinner for my family, I had Pandora playing on the Bose in my kitchen.  Not quite a clock radio, but I had it set to a Glenn Miller mix.

I cooked for my family.  Not the fried chicken, mashed potatoes and best white gravy you ever tasted like Nana was so famous for.  But I still had her in mind as I fussed about in my kitchen.

And I found it seriously appropriate when I was turning off the lights, after washing my dishes in my sink, that Glenn Miller's Moonlight Serenade started to play.

And I stood, in the barely lit kitchen of my home, thinking of my times dancing with Nana in her carpeted kitchen.  Spinning around to Moonlight Serenade.

I dreamt of one day being taller than her small stature.
I took in the scents of her lotion, the dishwashing liquid, her home.

She was transported to a time of dances during WWII.  To a husband in the Army, now long gone from cancer.  To a time when she thought of children, not dancing with her grandchildren.

Thank you, Nana.  For teaching me to swing.  For giving me a love of Big Band.  For instilling in me the unbelievable greatness of Glenn Miller.

And thank you, AM 1230.

By the way, Nana, I still can't make gravy like you.  No one can.

(And yes, that hairy, chubby beast of an infant is yours truly.  My brother is next to me.  And then two of my awesome cousins.  You just gotta love the 70s.)