Daddy and Nana

Before I was pronounced well enough to go to school, I had a lot of time on my hands. Sometimes I would go up to visit my grandmother in her third-floor apartment. Most people called her "Madam Condict," but I knew her too well to be in awe of her. She was our "Nana," and I never tired of listening to her stories.

When I knocked on her door, Nana greeted me with gentle dignity, and that made me feel even scruffier than ever. (In my newly acquired strength, I was becoming a tree climbing tomboy, so I was out of place in that lavender scented room.) But Nana made me feel welcome, and besides, she had a wonderful oriental trunk at the foot of her bed. That ancient chest held mementos from far away places, and I loved to get Nana to tell me stories about them. That trunk had ornate carvings on the sides, depicting fierce dragons with smoke billowing out of their nostrils. It was lined with sandalwood, giving it a mysterious foreign fragrance. Inside were shimmering silk fabrics and bright gold buttons and crude lumpy coins, with square holes in the center.

Grandmother (Nana), Corneila Condict. Father, Walter Condict. Brother, Yeaman Condict.

Nana had wonderful stories about those treasures, and the one I loved most was about the lace-edged handkerchief. Once lovely, it had been crudely hacked, and there were dark brown stains on the cut side.

"It's spoiled, Nana. Why do you keep it?" I asked the first time I saw it. "It's just an old rag, in here with all your treasures.

"Well, Little One, this bit of linen and lace is very special to me. Do you want to hear about it? She leaned back in her rocker, while I squirmed to get more comfortable inÊ her rather bony lap. Her black dress rustled, and so did the black petticoats under it.

I didn't expect it to be a very good story, but I wanted to stay in her lap. Nana was my refuge in that big, unhappy house, where everybody was worried about my mother. Any story would be better than being downstairs, feeling alone and in the way.

Nana rocked back gently, making the old chair creak.

"Well," she said, "I've told you that I traveled to the Far East. Ladies didn't ever travel unescorted in those days. But I did. I was doing God's work, and so I didn't worry about conventions. And I never feared for my safety.

I knew that was true, for Nana wrapped herself in an air of dauntless piety which no one could invade. And so as the widow of a Presbyterian minister, she traveled for her church, visiting missions in Africa and Siam and China. With mail and telephone service so undependable, she became a personal link between the church back home and the missionaries.

I wriggled into a more comfortable position, smoothing the cord-like veins in her gnarled, old hand.

"So what happened to this little old rag? I prodded.

"Well dear, I'm getting to that. I was in China, where we had several missions. One was very remote, up river, and I needed to get there. The local minister made arrangements for me to travel by small boat, and he and his wife accompanied me to the dock. What a sight that was! It was a turmoil of small boats, big boats, sampans, Chinamen in pigtails, shouting as they loaded bundles and bails into ship's holds. The captain of my little boat was a white man. The rest of the crew was Chinese. I was given the captain's quarters because that was the onlyÊ place with any privacy. I don't know where that poor man slept, but as it turned out, he had little time for rest, because a few miles up river, a sudden wind came up. It grew into a terrible storm, with our poor little ship pitching and tossing in the choppy waves. There was no sleep that night, but I lay down in my bunk, fully dressed, and hung on to the side rail with both hands. I prayed that the storm would ease. I prayed for the captain and crew who were shouting and running on the deck above me. The screaming wind and waves were pounding the fragile boat, and I prayed that it wouldn't break apart. Then a huge wave crashed against us. The ship lurched violently, and my head struck a wooden bulwark."

Nana stopped, remembering that turbulent night on a far-away river.

"Did you hurt your head?" I prompted.

"Oh, yes. I certainly did. I was almost knocked unconsious! I put my hand up to feel the spot, and I felt wetnesssticky, slippery wettness. That was blood of course, quite a lot of it. I needed to try to stop the bleeding, but what could I use? I was too weak to search through my baggage in the dark. Then I felt a handkerchief tucked in my waistband. It was my very best handkerchief, linen, with hand-made Irish lace . . . but no matter. I had to use what I could. I pressed it hard against my scalp, and then I suppose I must have fainted. The next thing I remembered was loud knocking on my door. It was on of the Chinamen, bringing me my breakfast tea The storm was over, and the sun was shining in the porthole. I was too weak to open the door, or even to call out to the man. All I could do was lie there. Soon more crewmen came. They pounded harder, jabbering in Chinese and broken English, and finally they broke in the door. There lay in the bunk, all bloody and limp, and they thought the storm had killed me. They rushed for the captain, shoutng, "Missy dead! Missy dead!"

"But you weren't dead!."

"No, I wasn't dead; I was very weak and bruised, but aiive. We arrived at the mission two days later and the kind missionaries nursed me back to health. But they had to cut away the handkerchief, and this is all that's left of it.

She patted my cheek.

"Now you run along, Little One, it's time for my nap."

Yeaman Condict (left) and me with "Nana": Madame CondictCorneiliaWalter Condict's Stepmother.

Additional Note: What a remarkable old lady Nana was! As a plain and pious young woman, Nana married her pastor, who was my grandfather (my Daddy's father), the Reverend Walter Condict. Dad's own mother, Adelaid Burnett Condict, had died giving birth to him. This was a common tragedy before anyone understood the existence of germs and infection.

When he died, Nana was asked by the officials of the Presbyterian Church to take a position for the church, traveling to foreign missions all over the world, to send back reports of their needs and progress. Meanwhile, my father, young Walter, attended Lawrenceville, a New Jersey prep school. Later he went to Princeton, which had been founded by his ancestor, Johnathon Dickenson, the first president of Princeton, in 1746. (It was originally named the College of New Jersey, and Thomas Jefferson had been a student there.)