Catherine Kelly - "Nana"
My Grandmother, Catherine Kelly (“Nana”)
Last edited March 4th, 2026
Her Home and My Earliest Memories
My Nana was my father’s mother. She lived upstairs at 21 Lawndale Street. When I was a toddler, I would climb the back stairs calling out, “Where’s the Nana?”
She often sat in a large green leather chair and read to me. One book I especially remember told the story of a castle whose path disappeared under water when the tide came in at night. Years later, I realized the castle was Mont-Saint-Michel.
She also played simple games with me, such as Parcheesi, and would toss a small bag of gumdrops down to me if I played in the backyard. She had a rich, almost purring voice—the same warm quality my father had. When something pleased her, she would say it was “grand.”
Family Background
Nana said she was from Montreal. Her husband, my grandfather, James P. McGuire, was from St. John's.
Her brother-in-law, Matthew F. McGuire, was a priest in Quebec in the 1920s. I remember having a puzzle map of North America in second grade that showed all the Canadian provinces, which made those places feel vivid and connected to our family story.
A Moment of Absentmindedness
Once, while reading to my older brother Ed, Nana became so absorbed in the story that she forgot she had left the kitchen sink running. Eventually, water began leaking through the ceiling below. My mother had to come upstairs to turn off the tap.
Saturday Mornings
Nana was extraordinarily patient. On Saturdays, she would hand-squeeze fresh orange juice and prepare a fried egg on toast with bacon for me. I would sit at a shiny red drop-leaf table with sparkles and aluminum edging. To this day, I can remember how delicious those breakfasts were.
Her patience was much like my father’s—steady and unhurried.
A Firm Hand
Although gentle, she could also be decisive. One afternoon, my Aunt Kathleen wanted to take the streetcar and subway into Boston late in the day. Nana told her she should not go. When my aunt insisted and put on her coat, Nana pulled it off her and firmly seated her in a chair. My aunt stayed home.
On another occasion, Nana heard the front doorbell ring and assumed it was a salesperson. She went downstairs holding a poker. My Uncle Matt followed her, gently removed the poker from her hand, and dismissed the caller.
The Eggnog Story
When my Aunt Kathleen and her husband, Bill Conners, went to New York City for a weekend, she asked my mother, Clare, to check on Nana each day. She also mentioned that Nana liked a glass of eggnog every afternoon.
My mother dutifully visited—and shared eggnog with her. When my aunt returned and asked how things had gone, Nana replied that everything was fine, though the eggnog tasted “a little off.” My mother later discovered why: Nana’s usual afternoon eggnog was always fortified with a bit of whiskey.
Final Reflection
My Nana was generous with her time, endlessly patient, and never raised her voice to me. My memories of her are filled with warmth—stories in a green leather chair, sparkling red kitchen tables, and the steady sense that being with her was, in her word, simply “grand.”