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She was born Elsie Nettie Henrietta Herrnkind on
November 5th, 1910 in Brooklyn, New York. Her father,
Franz Albert Herrnkind was from Stettin, Germany. Her mother Nettie
Thrinette Stumpf was from Wunsiedel, Bavaria, also in Germany. They
had 13 children before Elsie and one after. The name Herrnkind means
sir's child, and Elsie believed until the day she died that she was
descended from German royalty.
Elsie married John Walker in February 1933, and
had two daughters, Carol-Ann and Diane.
By the time that she came into my life, when I
married Carol-Ann, she had long since undergone the transition from
Elsie to Mom. Shortly thereafter, with the birth of Diane’s first
daughter, she underwent her final metamorphosis to Nanny.
I remember Elsie, Mom and Nanny as a remarkably
strong-minded woman. I don’t think there was ever any doubt who
was in charge. Nanny held firm to her beliefs, notwithstanding any
amount of contrary data. For example, Nanny remained confident that
all inclement weather on Long Island, where she lived, was the
direct consequence of space flights launched from Cape Kennedy,
Florida.
I don’t quite remember the exact date of one
most memorable day with Nanny. It was some time ago, because
Carol-Ann’s dad, John was still healthy. He, by the way, had
metamorphosed into Pop Pop long before. Nanny and Pop Pop and
Carol-Ann and I went to
play “pitch and put” at Robert Moses State Park further out on
the Island. In case you don’t know, “pitch and put” is a
shrunken down version of golf. The only one of our foursome who
remotely knew how to golf was Pop Pop. Accordingly, we progressed
around the course pretty slowly. About the fifth hole, I think it
was, the three young New York men caught up to us. They grudgingly
tolerated our pitiful pace for a hole or two. They then, in a
typical New York assertion, let us know that they were “busy
people, with places to go and people to see, and should play
through.” Nanny turned to them, defiantly placed her hands on her
hips, and in her most domineering voice, responded, “Well, I have
a duck in the oven.” The three important young New York men
shriveled back and quietly played behind Nanny and her plodding
family.
All families have their secret code phrases.
Whenever we see someone over-puffed with self- importance, we look
at each other and say, “Well, we have a duck in the oven.”
A few years ago, at least a decade after Pop
Pop had died, Nanny came to Chapel Hill to live with Carol-Ann and
me. She resisted leaving the family home on Long Island that been
built by her mother. It was clear to me that she could not stay
there when she drove her car through the back of the garage. As you
might expect, this was a time of significant challenge for Nanny and
for us. I was most impressed with the difficulty for a very
strong-minded woman coming to grips with loss of bodily and mental
capacity. Nanny’s hearing was failing, and she did not like her
hearing aid. Consequently, all sentences in our house were repeated three times in
sequentially increasing volume.
Carol-Ann and I love to eat out, and we tried
to include Nanny as often as possible. One night, I was having a terminal
desire for sushi. Carol-Ann and I knew that Nanny would not eat that
raw fish stuff, but thought that there would be something on the
menu that she would like. We ordered some shrimp tempura for Nanny.
Carol-Ann asked Nanny if she would like some meso soup. Nanny
allowed that she would try it. When the soup was served, Nanny
frowned and stirred her spoon around and around her bowl. She
exclaimed in a voice that everyone in the restaurant and down the
street could hear, “Meatloaf soup – meatloaf soup – this is
not meatloaf soup – there isn’t anything in it.”
As time went by, Nanny deteriorated both
physically and cognitively. It became clear that we could no longer
care for her adequately in our home . Nanny went to a new extended
care facility near Diane and her husband in Florida. We had a 90th
birthday party for her in November of 2000, and she passed away on
January of 2001.
That week in January was a difficult one for
Carol-Ann. Her mother died, I had a heart attack and she turned 60
years old. "All things considered", she says, “Turning 60 was the
worst.”
Nanny was cremated. Later, on a sunny day in May, we held a nice memorial
service just for the immediate family back on Long Island.
After the brief ceremony, our small group
discussed having some lunch before we all went our separate ways. My
daughter Kathryn said, “We should go to the Chinks.”
Now I don’t want you to think that Kathryn is politically
insensitive – she isn’t. The Chinks is what Nanny always called
the Chinese restaurant that was close to the family home. The Chinks
was a very important part of family life. The family went to the
Chinks on special occasions, such as after funerals. The family went
to the Chinks on trivial occasions, such as almost every Sunday
night. I think that it was at the Chinks that we had the first dinner
out with her folks when Carol-Ann and I were dating. I know that, when
Carol-Ann's dad was dying of heart disease, the only thing that
sounded good to him was takeout shrimp egg foo young from the Chinks.
I don’t want you to think that Nanny was
politically insensitive either. The Chinks was just what she called it. She had twin great grand children who are half Chinese, and
she called them “those cute little Chinks.”
Well it was agreed that the only place to have
the after-ceremony lunch was the Chinks, and we left the cemetery in
separate cars. Carol-Ann wanted to drive past the family home on the
way to the restaurant. She was quiet as we stopped in front of the
house. I suspect that she was momentarily reliving the many family
dinners, baseball games and barbecues that punctuated a wonderful
childhood in the neighborhood. This was a special place. Two of
Nanny’s Herrnkind brothers had married two Muller sisters, and had
build houses on either side of the original Herrnkind home. All of
the clan was gone now, and other families lived there.
We drove to the end of Lincoln Avenue, and
turned right on Hempstead Gardens Drive. I have to tell you a little
about Hempstead Gardens Drive. When Carol-Ann was growing up there,
it was called Railroad Avenue. At some point in time, someone must
have felt the need to upscale the name. Hempstead Garden Drive still
runs along the Long Island Rail Road Track, and I don’t ever
recall seeing a garden there.
We turned off Hempstead Gardens Drive to the
street where the Chinese restaurant was located. To our shock, there
was only a gigantic hole in the ground, surrounded by a chain link
fence, with a sign announcing the site of a future office building.
I suspect that this was a closure of sorts for
my wife and her family. Nanny was gone and there was no need any
longer for the Chinks.
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