My Nana—my maternal grandmother—was a major influence in my life. When I was a little girl, I spent a great deal of time with her, and years after her death, I came to appreciate her presence in my life far more than I ever imagined I would.

My grandmother, Marie Glover, was a laundress. She did laundry for the residents of the Parc Vendome, an exclusive building on West 57th Street in Manhattan. She was part of a team of women—mostly Black—who washed, dried, starched, and pressed shirts, sheets, and other sundry items for the building’s very wealthy tenants. One of those tenants, who happened to be the president of Steiff, made sure to gift me a stuffed animal every Christmas.

The laundry was located in the basement of the building. During the times I spent with my grandmother, I often went to work with her, sitting all day reading, coloring, and talking with the other women. I still remember the smells—the scent of freshly washed sheets mixed with steam rising from heavy metal irons. There was always a hum of activity as the women moved quickly from washing to shaking out, drying, ironing, folding, and finally placing everything into wicker laundry baskets that were later carried upstairs to the tenants. This was a full-service building, catering to the needs of its well-heeled residents.

At the end of the day, my grandmother would hold my hand tightly as we took the service elevator to the first floor, walked through the service entrance of the building, and made our way to the train station or, on rare occasion, if the weather was inclement, the doorman hailed a cab that took us back to her apartment in Harlem. My Nana lived in a building that would eventually be demolished to make way for a new wing of Harlem Hospital. Ironically, it is in that hospital that I was born.

Nana—the only grandmother I ever knew—had a larger-than-life presence. She grew up in South Carolina and came to New York at the age of fifteen, settling in Harlem, where she remained until the mid-1960s before moving to the Bronx. I loved visiting her. She was a simple woman who would chat with me, send me on small errands, and, most importantly, feed me the most scrumptious breakfasts and dinners. I would sit by her window, gazing outside, dreaming about what my distant future might look like. After finishing graduate school at Columbia University’s Teachers College, I rented my first apartment in a prewar building in the same vicinity. One day, Nana came to visit me and when she saw almost nothing in my refrigerator but a pkg of Lurpak butter, that I planned on using in a specific Craig Claiborne recipe, and a few bottles of wine and frozen mixed vegetables, she was shocked. I loved that apartment. It had an unusual layout, so although a studio that had been carved out of an 11 room apartment, it was more spacious than most one bedrooms. I had purchased the Martex Atelier Collection sheets that had a French Provencal print and made curtains to the entranceway of my enormous windowed kitchen. It was so fabulous, but my grandmother was unimpressed because my refrigerator, unlike hers had nothing in it. The next day she arrived at my house with two bags of groceries so I could eat like a “normal human being’ she declared. This was way before Instacart, Doordash or any of the now often used food delivery services.

She was stocky, plain, not fancy—but with a good heart. She always seemed old to me and always looked the same. She gave advice that I still fall back on today: “Make sure you get your education.” “Always have your own.” Timeless words from a wise, smart, humble woman. You didn’t talk back or disobey her—she could be stern—but in her care, I was loved in a no-nonsense kind of way. When we were out, she held my hand tightly and never let me out of her sight. She proudly told her friends at work about my good grades and how talented and artistic I was.

Sometimes we would walk up 59th Street and pass Rumpelmayer’s, the fancy ice cream parlor located in the old St. Moritz Hotel. I would stare at the elegant window displays—beautiful mini carousels and Steiff animals arranged like works of art. I would ask if we could go inside, and my grandmother would always say, “Uh-uh, baby, colored people don’t go in there.” I couldn’t imagine a place I wasn’t allowed to go. I would tell her I could go anywhere, and she’d reply, “Well, by the time you grow up, baby, maybe you will.” Her friends, Miss Vi and Miss Nelline, would nod and say, “Yes, baby—one day you’ll go there.” And at 5 I was still a baby, albeit a rather precocious one, and had a lot of growing and learning to do.

New York City, like many Northern cities, practiced de facto segregation. Many African Americans migrated north seeking opportunity after enduring racism, brutality, and segregation in the South. While the North offered more possibility, people often stayed within safe boundaries. In the Parc Vendome—its doormen, carpeted hallways, mahogany libraries—there were no “colored” residents, but plenty of black people working there as maids, laundresses, handymen, and a select few doormen. It would remain that way for years. During my college summers, I occasionally returned to the laundry to help my Nana wash and iron. She still bragged about my grades and how close I was to graduating. Though I rarely iron today, I learned to do it well under her watchful eye.

Years later, as a young woman about to graduate college, I found myself strolling up 57th Street, stopping into Bergdorf’s, Bendel’s, and other once-forbidden spaces—anticipating a future still unknown.

My Nana retired in the late 1970s. She spent her days with friends, traveling (sometimes with me), and hosting family dinners until she no longer could. She had been married three times, widowed once, and remained unmarried for the rest of her life.

One day, I noticed the Parc Vendome had become a rental building. Curious, I went to see what was available. As the agent showed me a studio that had been culled out of a huge apartment, I mentioned that my grandmother had worked there for over thirty years. She asked if I wanted to see the laundry. As I stepped into the basement, I was transported back in time—pipes once clanking with steam now silent, but familiar smells of freshly laundered sheets and linen lingered. The old laundry had been replaced with modern machines. The faces I knew were gone. Overwhelmed with memory, I left. As I waited for the elevator, the elevator man said, “Your grandmother must be so proud of you.” The agent met me upstairs with tears in her eyes. She said my story had made her day and wished me luck on my journey.

As for Rumpelmayer’s—I did eventually go several times. It was lovely, but time had softened its shine. Still, I had gone places my Nana and her friends once only imagined.

I miss my grandmother—strong, dignified, hardworking. Her discipline, perseverance, faith, and love are the hallmarks of her legacy. Her spirit feeds my soul and reminds me that life is a continuum. We are all building something—often without knowing it—for those who come after us. My Nana did that for me.

And I am who I am because of her.

Author’s Note: My husband always held my hand tightly, as we walked together, which was always a reassuring, intimate time between us. I felt safe and protected. It was reminiscent of my grandmother’s reassuring hand in mine. 

In the background of my author’s photo, taken by childhood friend Joan Siegel-Torres, there is a reflection of the Parc Vendome. Very unintentional and an unexpected surprise.

Brave in a New World: A Guide to Grieving the Loss of a Spouse available at Amazon.com.