Memories of my daddy's mom, whom we called Nana, as we lay in her bed and she told us stories about little wild animals like chipmonks, ducks and so on at the lake where she had a camp.
She was the wife of my abuser, but she was the one who cleaned up the mess after he "spewed" all over me in my crib. These memories, however, were supressed until therapy uncovered them some 40 yrs later. So my memories of her did not include her rescueing me from that swine, though she had known exactly what he had done to me obviously. She too was his victim, so I have never held it against her. I have always loved her and always will!
She loved to cook and bake, cookies, pies, and she'd make us a cup of tea with milk to go with these. I loved the aroma of her home, always there was a sweet spice smell to it. She would give me paper and crayons to draw with so I would be quiet and not disturb that abusive husband of hers. I think also so she could talk in the kitchen with my mom, while I was in the front room, too far away to hear what was being said.