Her Name

No one called Mabel Perkins anything but “Nana.”

The small boned white haired lady was a fixture at the Vermont Lake where my husband, four children and I vacationed for thirty years.

Our family, temporary expatriates from NYC, sat nightly on the screened porch overlooking the road leading toward the General Store. As we savored the remnants of a locally baked raspberry pie, we watched Nana walk briskly past. She seldom turned in our direction, and I have no memory of her ever returning our called out invitation to join us.

And still being young, I thought how rigid the elderly lady seemed on her nightly walk. One evening I noticed Nana never stopped at the nearby General store. It had been my earlier impression that the friendly local meeting place was the daily destination for the elderly woman.

Upon inquiry, however, I was told, “No, Nana walks one mile in the morning; the other in the evening. She never stops.”

Then I asked,”How old is she?”

The reply shocked me, “Ninety five this week.”

My own family had departed this world long before reaching that level of maturity, and I was quite impressed. I wondered why Nana didn’t just sit and watch the stars the way my husband and I did during the four weeks we traditionally enjoyed in the Northeast Kingdom.

That was fifty years ago. Today as my own impending line of demarcation approaches, I remember Nana Perkins. I realize that although she didn’t subscribe to the NYT for health and wellness advice, nor have a guru or life guide, Mable Pickel was indeed a very wise woman.

Fortune intervened for our family and our Vt vacations ended before Nana stopped her nightly walks. However, we later learned that they continued well into the second half of her ninth decade

As the eract figure continued to pass the cabins, I wonder how many other people were inspired by her Yankee wisdom and were impressed by her healthy lifestyle.

Today I have a feeling Nana Perkins would have some pithy advice about life in the midst of Covid. I only wish I could hear it.