My spring teaching term began last week, and what a joy it is to be back in the classroom with a lively group of senior-age students dedicated to writing stories about all the interesting things they’ve seen and done during their long and fruitful lives. Pat Milligan hit the ground running in the first class with this marvelous story full of lush description of her hard-working grandmother and a mysterious, glamorous visitor who spends a summer with the family and captivates a young girl’s imagination, until….
Ramona
by Pat Milligan
The prospect of a guest brought forth a frenzy of house cleaning. Nanny spent that warm June morning in 1945 cleaning Uncle Louis’ bedroom. She washed the insides of the tall windows that looked out on the narrow alley and the yellow brick duplex next door. She wiped the window ledges and the molding, the door, and the small mirror. She polished the dresser and replaced the paper in the bottom of the drawers. The scent of ammonia and lemon oil masked the antiseptic odor of the room. Then she grunted as she turned the heavy mattress over the box spring of the old bed.
Nanny
She did not ask for help from her grandchildren as she took the bed-clothes down the narrow stairs to the kitchen. There she pulled the clothes washer with its attached wringer to the sink, connected the hose to the faucet, and filled the gray enamel tub with water and Fels-Naptha soap flakes. The wringer was the dangerous part, as the unwary or inattentive laundress could catch her fingers on the ever-rolling pins. We knew the procedure from watching, not from helping.
“Go play,” she told us if we offered help. “You’re only young once, so go play.” Meaning we should stay out of her way, the directions left us happy enough.
Later, back in the kitchen, I asked the same question one or the other of us had asked throughout the morning, “When is she coming, Nanny?”
“Probably sometime this afternoon, I imagine. Your Uncle Louis said it would take time for her to leave the hospital and get her few possessions together. Can’t you girls find something to do?”
In the living room I searched the desk for some penny postcards and a pen. Gwen took a big brown envelope from the bottom drawer and spread my pictures of movie stars about her on the floor. Most were black and white photographs with autographs.
“I like this one of Elizabeth Taylor,” she said. “And here’s one of Margaret O’Brian. Do you think I look like her?”
“A little. She’s about the same age as you.” I didn’t have to turn around to look, for I had memorized them both. Gwen’s hair was brown and short with bangs that fell into her eyes. She had a cute little nose, but it got into everything, and she could never stop talking.
“Who are you writing to now?” she asked.
“Jon Hall, Maria Montez, and Turhan Bey”
“Ugh! Turhan Bey. He’s so ugly.”
“I think he’s – uh – exotic, and you don’t get an opinion.” I said, addressing the card to Culver City, California. “And don’t get my pictures messed up.”
We both jumped when we heard a car door slam and ran to the windows.
“Here she comes,” yelled Gwen toward the stairs where Nanny was remaking the bed and finishing her cleaning. We ran to the front door as a yellow cab was pulling away. Standing on the curb, a tall, thin, blonde lady collected a few leather bags and a large handbag. When she saw us, she seemed startled, and suppressed a small cough with a white handkerchief.
Gwen and Patsy, a bit younger than they were in this story.
“I’m Ramona,” she whispered. “You must be the nieces.”
“I’m Patsy. This is Gwen.”
“We live here,” Gwen reported, moving to the porch.
Nanny’s wide girth blocked the doorway. “I see you’ve met my grandchildren. Welcome Ramona. We’re glad you’re staying with us for a while. Come in.” She moved aside and Ramona dropped her bags inside the door as if she were not sure she would remain and might need to claim them soon.
“Are you sure you have a room for me?” she asked. “Louis said it would be all right.”
“His room is available until he comes home from the hospital. Then we can make other arrangements for you.” Nanny reassured her. “Now come into the kitchen where we can have coffee.” Nanny turned to us. “Girls, take Ramona’s things upstairs.”
We raced up the steps and raced back again. We didn’t want to miss a thing. We were called the Misses Big Ears for a reason.
Seated at the yellow kitchen table, we watched Nanny pour three inches of cream from the neck of a milk bottle into a small pitcher next to the sugar bowl. She got two glasses from the cupboard and poured two cups of coffee. I spooned Ovaltine into the glasses of skim milk. Ramona took half of the cream and two teaspoons of sugar, stirring them into the fragrant coffee. We sipped our Ovaltine and listened, our attention feasting on Ramona.
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