Deborah Lipp

On the surface, I’m doing an acrostic puzzle. But really, I’m with Nana.

The acrostic is in a Simon & Schuster spiral bound book of “Crostic” puzzles edited by Thomas Middleton. I am doing this puzzle at the kitchen table, but the binding and the flat, hard cardboard cover make it easy to sit in bed and do these puzzles on my knees.

Like Nana did.

When Nana would come to stay with us, she would have a suitcase full of mysteries and Middleton Crostics. She would read and do puzzles. She used sharp pencils, deadly, blood-drawing sharp pencils, always long. She never seemed to have stubby pencils. And I would get in bed with her, and she would teach me how to do the puzzles.

An acrostic is a quotation that is solved by a clue list. (The literal “acrostic” part is that the first letter of each word in the clue list spells the title and author of the quote.) In a crossword, you work back and forth between vertical and horizontal clues. The Downs you get help you with Acrosses you’re stuck on, and vice versa. In acrostics, you work back and forth between a single list of clues and a quotation. The clues drop letters into the quote, and figuring out the sentence structure (sort of playing Wheel of Fortune with it) drops letters into unsolved clues.

Nana would let me fill in the “the”s.

And the “and”s.

Nana had crippling arthritis from a fairly young age. She spent a lot of time in bed. At some point in my early teens I realized that I didn’t know Nana very well and I wanted to. So I got in bed with her, and we did acrostics.

We got good. I got good; she was already good.

Nana died six years ago. Or was it seven?

When I was at my Dad’s over Thanksgiving, he had 3 boxes of books to give away, and going through them, I found several pristine Middleton Crostic books. He couldn’t explain why he had untouched puzzle books, but I grabbed them.

I never buy these books. Thomas Middleton died. His successors are talented but, I dunno, I don’t feel the fire. I mean, I haven’t read post-Fleming Bond books either (but I intend to…I guess). Not the same. But there they were. Pristine. And it felt like…Nana.

So I took them home, and I opened one on the kitchen table. I read and/or do puzzles over coffee every morning, so maybe I just thought…ah, puzzles. But maybe I didn’t. Maybe I knew I was with Nana.

And I’m with her. I have sharp, blood-drawing pencils. They’re new. Long. And I can feel Nana. I can feel the angle of her hand when I hold the pencil, and suddenly I know that the odd way she had of holding it was not just arthritic, it actually worked with the shape of the puzzle.

I finish one puzzle and I start another, and Nana is with me. I don’t know what I’ll do when I finish the book. What did we do, Nana and I? Will I start another? What about when I finish them all? I only know this: On the surface, I’m doing an acrostic puzzle. But really, I’m with Nana.