My Nana Knew a Thing or Two

 

My Nana Knew a Thing or Two

My Nana knew a thing or two—not because she’d traveled the world or collected degrees, but because she paid attention. She watched people the way some folks watch the weather, noting the shifts, the signs, the quiet warnings that came before a storm. If wisdom were currency, Nana would’ve been rich without ever opening a bank account.

She lived in a small house that always smelled faintly of soap, cooked onions, and whatever season it happened to be. Spring smelled green. Summer smelled like heat and starch. Fall carried apples and damp leaves. Winter smelled like nothing at all—just clean, sharp air and the promise of soup. Nana said smells were memories trying to get your attention. “If you don’t listen,” she’d say, “they’ll come back louder.”

Nana didn’t raise her voice much. She didn’t need to. When she spoke, people leaned in. Her authority didn’t come from fear or volume, but from consistency. She was the same person on good days and bad ones, and that made people trust her. “If you’re always changing the rules,” she once told me, “don’t be surprised when nobody knows how to play.”

Wisdom Without a Manual

Nana never claimed to be wise. In fact, she distrusted people who announced their wisdom. “If someone has to tell you they’re smart,” she said, “they probably are—but only about themselves.” Her lessons came disguised as observations, often delivered while her hands were busy with something practical: shelling peas, folding laundry, wiping down the counter for the third time.

She believed that most problems came from people ignoring simple truths. Eat when you’re hungry. Rest when you’re tired. Say thank you when someone helps you. Apologize when you’re wrong. “Complicated living,” Nana insisted, “comes from pretending simple things don’t matter.”

When I was young, I thought she was old-fashioned. Everyone does. Nana didn’t rush. She didn’t multitask. She didn’t see the point in hurrying through things that deserved care. “You rush bread,” she warned, “and it won’t rise. You rush people, and they won’t either.”

Love, According to Nana

Nana’s ideas about love were practical to the point of bluntness. She didn’t believe love was a feeling you fell into and out of like a hole in the ground. Love, to her, was an action—repeated daily, especially when it was inconvenient.

“Anybody can be kind when it’s easy,” she said. “Love shows up when it’s not.”

She believed in affection, but she believed more in reliability. Flowers were nice, but remembering to fix the broken step mattered more. Saying “I love you” was fine, but showing up on time said it louder. Nana wasn’t against romance; she just didn’t think it should replace responsibility.

When people asked her the secret to a long marriage, she’d shrug. “Marry someone who tells the truth when it’s uncomfortable and knows how to make soup,” she’d say. “Everything else you can figure out.”

She also believed love had limits—an idea that surprised people. Nana knew a thing or two about boundaries long before the word became fashionable. “Love doesn’t mean letting someone hurt you,” she said calmly. “That’s not love. That’s confusion.”

The Education of Hard Times

Nana grew up when waste was a sin and thrift was a virtue you practiced without applause. She learned early how to make things last: clothes, food, relationships. She knew how to stretch a dollar and a conversation.

Hard times, she believed, were excellent teachers if you didn’t let them turn you bitter. “Suffering doesn’t make you special,” she said. “It just makes you experienced. What you do with that experience—that’s the part that counts.”

She had little patience for self-pity. Not because she lacked compassion, but because she believed people were stronger than they realized. “You can feel sorry for yourself for five minutes,” she allowed. “After that, you need to decide what you’re going to do.”

Nana didn’t romanticize struggle, either. She knew it was ugly and unfair. But she trusted resilience more than comfort. “Easy lives don’t teach much,” she said. “They just keep you busy.”

Listening as a Skill

One of Nana’s greatest talents was listening. Not the kind where you nod and wait for your turn to speak, but the kind where you actually hear what someone is saying—and what they aren’t.

She taught me that silence wasn’t empty. It was informative. “If someone stops talking,” she’d whisper, “pay attention to why.” Nana noticed when voices changed, when hands shook, when jokes came a little too fast. She understood that people often tell the truth sideways.

“Most folks don’t need advice,” she said. “They need to be heard without being corrected.”

This made her the keeper of secrets she never shared. Nana believed trust was a fragile thing. “You break it once,” she warned, “and it remembers.”

Work, Pride, and Doing Things Right

Nana had strong feelings about work—not in the hustle-culture sense, but in the dignity-of-effort sense. She believed any job done honestly deserved respect. She also believed in doing things properly, even when no one was watching.

“Your name is on everything you do,” she said. “Even the things you think don’t matter.”

She cleaned her house like company was always coming. She dressed neatly even if she wasn’t going anywhere. This wasn’t about appearances; it was about self-respect. Nana didn’t believe in letting standards slip just because no one was keeping score.

She disliked shortcuts. “Shortcuts usually take longer,” she insisted. “They just hide the cost until later.”

Nana on Aging and Time

Nana was honest about getting older. She didn’t pretend it was all wisdom and sunsets. Things hurt. Names slipped away. Days went by faster than they used to. But she refused to treat aging like a tragedy.

“Growing old,” she said, “is not the problem. Wasting time is.”

She was careful with her hours. Not busy, but intentional. She believed time was a gift you didn’t get to exchange. “You spend it whether you mean to or not,” she said. “Might as well spend it on something that matters.”

Nana didn’t fear death the way people expect. She respected it. “Everything ends,” she said simply. “That’s what makes it precious.”

Lessons I Didn’t Know I Was Learning

At the time, I didn’t realize Nana was teaching me anything. I thought we were just talking. Or sitting. Or doing nothing at all. It turns out “nothing at all” is where a lot of learning happens.

She taught me patience by moving slowly. Integrity by telling the truth. Kindness by refusing to gossip. Strength by getting up every day and doing what needed doing, whether she felt like it or not.

Years later, I hear her voice in my head at unexpected moments. When I’m tempted to rush. When I want to say something unkind. When I’m tired and looking for an excuse. Nana shows up, not as a memory, but as a standard.

What Nana Would Say Now

If Nana were here now, I imagine she’d have opinions. About how loud everything is. About how quickly people decide things. About how often we confuse attention with affection.

She’d probably remind us that convenience isn’t the same as care. That being busy isn’t the same as being useful. That having a platform isn’t the same as having something to say.

She’d tell us to drink more water. To call people instead of texting when it matters. To sit down and eat without staring at a screen. She’d tell us that most arguments aren’t worth winning and most relationships are worth protecting.

And she’d say all of it without preaching, without hashtags, without trying to go viral. Just the truth, offered plainly, the way she always did.

Carrying It Forward

Nana knew a thing or two because she lived long enough to see patterns repeat themselves. She understood that human nature doesn’t change nearly as much as we think. Fear, love, pride, hope—they just wear different clothes.

The real gift Nana left behind wasn’t her advice, though there was plenty of that. It was her example. A life lived carefully, kindly, and with intention. A reminder that wisdom doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful.

I try to live in a way that would make her nod—not clap, not brag, just nod. Nana-style approval was subtle, but it mattered. Still does.