Nan’s Hand

June 14, 2020

An image from long ago came to me recently. One of my many jobs in Atlanta back in the 80s was working the front desk at a production company that claimed to be the largest in the Southeast. I’d never heard of them, but I was just back in town from an unsuccessful out-of-state venture, and needed a job.

I did what women at front desks did then. I answered the phone and directed people’s calls. I took messages and wrote memos. I held the boss’s calls when he was in a meeting. I learned who was important and whether it was cool if I interrupted the boss for that person. Usually a man. Okay, always a man. I learned what J. Walter Thompson was and why I should care. I opened and sorted the mail and got it to the right people. I typed stuff. I filed stuff. The best thing, though, sometimes when there was a shoot, I got to run out and fetch the lunches, often ordered from the Silver Skillet just down the street. I never ordered anything myself. It wasn’t that I was trying to lose weight; I was a huge fan of their biscuits, their fried catfish, and coconut crème pie. I just got so insanely sleepy if I ate lunch that I could barely hold my eyes open. And I loved being able to leave the office.

I was the lowest on the totem pole there. The place was packed with people: the two head honchos, one in charge of money and the other creative, producers, assistant producers, production assistants, grips, gaffers, editors, assistant editors. I remember, clearly to this day, how they all referred to actors hired for the gigs, as “the talent,” in the most contemptuous tones possible.

But the person who was immediately above me, and I feel like I can honestly say, on so many levels, was my “superior,” was Nan Ware. All of five feet one or two, mid-twenties, Nan had perfect posture, a calm demeanor, and was direct, competent, and kind. Everybody in that office respected her. Everybody depended on her. She sure seemed to hold the place together.

While I was working there, Nan’s mother was diagnosed with cancer. I don’t remember what kind. I would ask about her, and the news was never good. Nan started to look a little tired, but she never lagged, and never used her weariness as an excuse of any kind. Only once do I remember her getting teary-eyed. She occasionally had to leave early to go to the hospital or to check on her mom.

One morning Nan told me that her mother had passed. I hope I gave her a big hug, but I don’t remember. She said she was glad that her mother’s suffering was over. But now she was without her mother.

The whole office went to the funeral. Afterwards, as I was walking to my car, I turned around for one last look and saw a scene that has stayed in my memory ever since. Most people had dispersed. Nan, neat in her funeral dress, with her perfect posture, walked silently to her mother’s casket, and placed her hand on it. She did this with such love. She stood there, quiet, her head down, gently touching the casket. No cinematographer could have created a more heartbreaking, beautiful, perfect scene. She stood like this for just a moment and calmly walked away. She did not look back. I stood in wonder at her dignity and felt a lump in my throat.

I don’t know what made this image come to mind. But I am grateful to have it, as a reminder of how much a gesture can convey, of how love can transmit through the body. And a reminder of Nan Ware, a truly good person. I hope she is well out there in the world.

Hope

Versailles