My Nana

Janice Ruth Anderson was born August 9, 1934 in Chicago, IL. In her youth, she played violin and the organ at church. She married her high school sweetheart, Rich Wahlberg, in December 1952 and during their lifetime together shared many adventures, laughed together, cried together, and loved one another. Janice served for 21 years as a volunteer at the front desk of Presbyterian Hospital, adored her dogs, enjoyed traveling in their fifth wheel trailer, did puzzles, and was an excellent seamstress until the rheumatoid arthritis in her hands prevented her from threading a needle. She loved to laugh and would often snort in the middle of a fit of giggles.

I knew this woman as Nana.

My grandparents always lived down the street from us, usually within an easy bike ride. I spent countless nights at their house in the summer, staying up late playing Monopoly and watching movies. She was a great spoiler of her grandchildren. My mom, Nana, and I had great fun together - eating a pretzel at the mall while window shopping, decorating the house for Christmas, cooking together in the kitchen, taking walks on our camping weekends, and laughing the whole time. We had a blast during Mom's weekend in Pullman eating pancakes at the firehouse and admiring the young firemen who lived there. We took a road trip to Denver to watch Wicked, a trip in which Nana drove all of 3 miles and never lived it down.

Her face beamed when she spoke of her grandchildren and was proud as a peacock to become a great-grandmother. The world revolved around my grandpa, to whom she was married for over 60 years and whom she loved fiercely until the end. We lost him to brain cancer in June of last year. This strong woman lasted until late November before joining him, stubbornly refusing to spend a single anniversary without him by her side. I blame my stubborn streak on the Scandinavian genetics I inherited from that side of the family.

The shock of losing both grandparents within 6 months has only slightly worn off. In my down time, it's hard not to reach for the phone to call and update her on the latest doings of my children, a topic from which she never tired. Her death brought my family siblings together for the first time in over 5 years which is no small feat. I admit it was strange to stand in my parents' kitchen, observing my grown brothers have a conversation. I guess they will always be my "little brothers" in my mind.

I miss her dearly and with for the chance to see her again, to hear her laugh, to spend an afternoon walking the mall munching a pretzel, or take a walk through the campground next to her with a dog on the leash.

She was the only person I've ever known to use the phrase, "tookie in the hoovit." How could you not love such an individual??