Does he eat milk?

    My sweet sister gave birth to a perfect baby boy just a few weeks ago (I could digress, waxing eloquent on my newest nephew's darling elfin features and cute facial expressions, but I'm sure you can imagine for yourself). And Nellie is in love, although she's never actually seen him. She asked me his name and then tried to Russianize it: "So-ya," she pronounced carefully, nodding her head. "That's a nice name."
    Each week she asks me how the "little boy" is doing, and each week I give her a progress report. One afternoon she threw me for a loop. "What does he eat?" she queried. "Does he eat milk?"
    "Yes, of course," I answered, not sure what else a fairly newborn baby might consume.
    "Where does your sister get it?"
    I wondered if Russians were shy on the subject of breastfeeding. "Well," I said, "she nurses him."
    Nellie spoke a little louder, as though I had misunderstood the question. "But where does she get it? At the store?"
    "No," I repeated, "from herself. She nurses him."
    "Moloko," Nellie said in Russian. And then, in English, "MILK." Back to Russian: "For the baby. Where does it come from? Where does she buy it? Don't you understand milk?"
    I was mystified. "Yes, I understand milk. For the baby. Moloko. She doesn't buy it anywhere; she nurses him. Haven't you ever seen women nursing their babies?"
    Nellie shook her head in disbelief. "But my mother told me that American women NEVER nursed their babies. They ALWAYS buy milk at the store."
    I had almost no words. "Well...umm...that's not true." And Nellie was astonished.

Vindication

    One of Nellie's old students also happens to be an old schoolmate of mine, a lovely girl who moved away, married, had a beautiful baby and still keeps Nellie posted on her grown-up life. And Nellie, knowing that we were acquainted, keeps me updated too. So when a birthday card arrived with a new photo of their family, of course Nellie showed it to me.
    "Oh, how nice!" I exclaimed. "What a sweet picture."
    Nellie frowned and pointed at each of them in turn. "But look, he's shorter than she is. And his face is so round. And why does her hair look like that? How can she have married a man who's shorter than herself? A woman wants to look up to her husband!"
    I had a sinking feeling about the direction of the conversation; Nellie was moving quickly into her stubborn and irrational mode. I tried to reason with her: "He's not short--he's just sitting down. Maybe he's hunched over a little. Look at that older picture (I pointed to one on her wall). See, when he's standing, you can tell that he's quite a bit taller than her. Besides, short isn't bad...he's a handsome guy."
    "No, no, he's just short. I don't like short men. Nobody likes short men. I know what happened: she didn't get married right away, so she just said 'yes' to the first person who asked. I never heard anything about him until her mom said they were married, so she must have just met him and got married in a week! Didn't you know your husband a long time before you married him?"
     I could feel irritation rising like a wave of heat as I listened to her carry on about how incomprehensible it was that her student should marry a short man she barely knew; I could tell that it was futile to argue, but I couldn't ignore the injustice of it all. "How do you know that they didn't meet months before they married? And anyway, don't you know that people are different? My husband and I were longtime friends, but I know people who have gotten married in just a few weeks."
    "Well," Nellie demanded, "would you marry him?"
    "Of course not."
    "There!" she was triumphant. "Because he's short and has a round face, right?"
    I wanted to shake her. "No, because I've never met him and I already have a husband!"
    But there was no convincing her. I left that day so frustrated that my head hurt.

    Last Tuesday, Nellie waited until I'd been there about half an hour to mention a surprise visit the previous weekend from my old friend. "And she brought her husband and baby--and her husband was so handsome! So tall and strong and good looking, and so nice. She said in the birthday picture he had been sitting on the ground, and she was on something to make her taller. Such a lovely family."
    I rolled my eyes at her in exasperation. "I TOLD you."
    She chuckled sheepishly. "You did, didn't you?"

THE University

    "How far is it from your house to the university?" Nellie asked me one day.
    "Which university?"
    She rolled her eyes at me. "THE university, of course."
    "But what is it called? There are so many in Oklahoma." I hoped to narrow the field a little.
    Nellie looked completely bewildered. "There's more than one? But I'm sure that Karik told me there was only one."
    "No, no. I could name a whole bunch of them right now, just off the top of my head. There's the University of Oklahoma, Oklahoma State University, Oklahoma City University, the University of Central Oklahoma, Oklahoma Baptist University, Rose State University, East Central University...." I could have continued, but Nellie's eyes had begun to glaze over.
    "Oh, dear. I don't know. You just go, and turn, and go straight, and keep going, and you're there."
    "Which road do you take?" I still didn't have any idea which university she had in mind.
    "Which road? Umm...I don't know. But it's so beautiful--absolutely lovely. And the buildings are made of red brick, and they're building some new ones...don't you know which one I'm talking about?"
    I sighed. "Oh, Nellie, most of them have red brick buildings and all of them are always building something new. And they're all beautiful in some way or another! If you can't tell me something else, I can't figure out which one you mean."
    "Really? You don't know? Then what am I going to do? How can I find out?" Her voice rose to the desperate squeak I've come to recognize as panic.
    I didn't really think it was that hard. "You can ask Karik what it's called."
    Relief flooded her face. "Oh, that's a good idea. I'll ask him. So can you come to a concert there when I find out which university it is?"
    "When is the concert?"
    She knew the answer to this one. "The 13th of May," she stated proudly. "Can you come?"
    I hated to disappoint her, but even knowing the location wasn't going to help on that day. "I'm sorry, Nellie, but that's Mother's Day. I'll be at my Mama's house."
    If you've read Anne of Green Gables, you'll know what I mean by saying that immediately she was back in the depths of despair. "Oh, no! You can't come? Are you sure that's Mother's Day? Is it always on May 13th?"
    "No, it's always on the third Sunday of May. I'm sorry, but I'm sure."
    Nellie brightened again. "But if it were on a Saturday, you could come. I'll tell Karik, and next year maybe you can come."
    Dear Nellie. We still have to figure out where it is we're going.

Thirty-Nine Years of Mourning

WARNING: This story will not make you laugh.

    Every year, around her birthday, Nellie tells me again about when her mother died. I think she doesn't remember that she's told me before. I knew it was coming when I arrived to find her fretful and depressed; almost as soon as I sat down, she began to talk.
    "It was today that I brought my mother home from the hospital. Thirty-nine years ago today, I brought her home because her cancer had come back and the nurse told me that if I didn't want her body to be given to the students for dissection I should take her home right away. There was nothing else they could do. The cancer was all through her body this time, even though it had gone away for awhile. So I brought her home and tried to make her comfortable. I didn't know what to do. It was horrible, awful. She tried to be brave, and then she cried and shouted and I couldn't figure out what she wanted. She understood then that she was about to die, and she told me that I mustn't cry. She didn't want any tears.
    "So when she died a few days later, I tried not to cry. It would have been easier if I could have just cried, but my mother didn't want me to. What could I do? That was her wish. My neighbors wanted to help me with the funeral meal, but I couldn't do it. On the seventh day, I let them help me spread a table of sweets because it is our tradition and I sat there with the other women, but I couldn't cry. It was my birthday, but now all I can think of every year is when my mama died."
    She was crying now. And what could I say? Thirty-nine years of sadness, bottled up inside--all I could do was hold her hand and rub her back until she calmed a little. Her sweet 91-year-old roommate looked with concern at her tears and asked me what was wrong. "She's remembering when her mother died," I explained softly.
    "I'm so sorry," she whispered back.
    "Will you be alright?" I asked Nellie. She nodded, and I hugged her goodbye reluctantly.
    As I gathered my things, her roommate said quietly, "I'll take care of her."

    More than my lifetime ago, she wasn't allowed to cry...but Nellie still mourns.

There's No Such Thing!

    Nellie has a fascination (you might almost call it an obsession) with the clothes she sees the news anchors wear. There are two pretty young women whose program begins while I'm there, and neary every week she demands how on earth they can always have new dresses. "You see what they're wearing today? I've never seen those dresses before, and they'll never wear them again! How can they afford new clothes every single day?"
    I've tried to suggest that maybe some business sponsors their wardrobe, but that doesn't seem to make sense to her.
    One week, the blonde anchor wore a black and white animal print ruffled top. Nellie kept looking back at her, distracted from our conversation, until finally she couldn't stand it any longer. "What's with her blouse?" she asked. "I don't understand what it's supposed to be. Is it grey?"
    "It's black and white, like a leopard," I explained.
    "Black and white? But leopards are yellow and brown." She was still confused.
    "It's a snow leopard, I think. They're white with black spots."
    "A snow leopard? I've never heard of such a thing."
    "They're kind of like white tigers--have you seen those? Except with spots instead of stripes. You know, the tigers that look like zebras." Perhaps I was not really making sense after all; Nellie seemed even more bewildered.
    "What? I don't understand. Leopards, tigers, lions...big cats? Grrr?"
    I laughed. "Yes, 'grrr.' That's what I'm talking about. They all say 'grrr.' Except the zebras, of course. I don't know if they make any sound."
    She waved her hand impatiently. "Forget about the zebras. We're talking about leopards. But leopards aren't black and white--they're yellow and brown."
    "I promise, there are snow leopards who are black and white. Don't you believe me?"
    Nellie was not convinced. "I've never heard of any such thing in all my life, and I'm eighty-six years old. You're less than half my age. How could you know about something I've never heard about? Where did you see them?"
    I tried to remember. "Oh, on television..."
    "There!" she shook her finger triumphantly. "Just because you saw it on television doesn't mean it's real. There's no such thing."
    I rolled my eyes and recalled another example. "I've seen them at the zoo, too."
    She slumped. "You have?"
    "Yes, so they have to be real."
    The evidence had stacked against her, and she finally gave in. Mostly. "Oh, alright. But what about her blouse? You said they're black and white, but her blouse is grey."
    "Well," I reasoned, "it's really white with black spots but you see it as grey because you can't see it clearly and it all mixes together."
    Nellie frowned. "How do you know that I see it that way?" she demanded suspiciously.
    "Because you read everything like this!" I held my hand about four inches away from my eyes. "Maybe if you moved really, really close to the television, you could see the spots."
    She brightened. "Maybe so! I'll try it." And she moved her chair near enough to peer closely at the new anchor's blouse. "You're right! It's white with black spots!"

Oops.

    Lindor truffles are among Nellie's favorite candies. Of course, she also likes Swedish fish and cordial cherries and...well, pretty much anything. But she really loves Lindor chocolates, so when she asked me if I could buy her some I wasn't surprised.
    "Are they for anything special?" I wondered.
    "Oh, they're for a lady who works here. Her birthday is coming soon, and she's such a nice lady that I want to give her a present. She's seventy or something, and such a nice person.
    I was happy to comply. "Sure I will. Do you want a card too?"
    "Yes, a pretty birthday card--you can write something nice in it like 'I congratulate you on your birthday and wish you health and happiness'--you know what to write."
    "Alright. What's her name?"
    Nellie hesitated. "I think it's Samira."
    I laughed. "Are you sure?"
    "You know me too well, don't you?"
    "Yes," I answered, "I can remember a time not very long ago when you couldn't remember my name!"
    She chuckled sheepishly. "But I know your name now! It's...um...don't tell me...."
    I shook my head in amazement.
    "Is it...Jennifer?"

Don't Talk to Strangers

     I was sick again on a Tuesday, and called Nellie to let her know why I couldn't come; otherwise, she would assume that I were dead or at least in the hospital.
    "Hello, Nellie?" There was silence on the other end. "Nellie, are you there? It's Jessica."
    Finally she spoke. "What? I don't understand."
    "It's Jessica," I spoke a little louder. "You know, your friend, the one you call your granddaughter? The girl who comes to see you every Tuesday?"
    Another long silence. Nellie evidently wasn't catching on. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, her voice hard and flat--and she hung up!
     I looked in disbelief at the "call ended" message on my phone, took a deep breath, and tried again.    "Nellie, it's Jessica," I began quickly. "You know me. I come every Tuesday and we have tea."
    There was a pause, and then she sighed. "Fine," she gave in with obvious incredulity. "What do you want?"
    Exasperated and now exhausted (because I was, after all, feeling fairly awful), I hurried to finish. "I just called to tell you that I can't come today because I'm sick."
    Nellie's voice changed completely as she recognized at last who I was. "Ohhh, Jessica! Now I understand! You're sick? Do you need to go to the doctor? What about the apples? Can your husband come and get the apples? Why do you get sick so much?"
    This was the Nellie I knew.