I was always very proud of my paternal grandmother. In the early part of the last century she had been living in Scotland with her husband and they had a young son – my father. My grandfather was in the Black Watch during World War I, and he was killed in Peshawar, India.
My grandmother left her life and family in Scotland and sailed to the United States with my dad when he was only 5. We have pictures of him disembarking in his little kilt! I cannot imagine having her courage, leaving home with a small child, and starting life anew in a completely foreign country.
Many years later, when I was a freshman in college, my grandmother died the week before Christmas. I remember sitting in Waterman’s Funeral Home in Kenmore Square, Boston watching the Citgo sign cycle through its neon pattern.
No one but our very small family attended her calling hours. The funeral was a bit better. A few folks took the time to honor this brave woman.
A week later, we celebrated Christmas “because that’s what Nana would have wanted”. Even then, I thought that she probably would have liked to see more caring people around her, while she was alive.
Every year on the 18th of December I remember my grandmother and try to take a moment to be kinder to folks.
In recent years, December 18 has become a joyful occasion with our son and daughter-in-laws first wedding.
We weren’t able to be there, so they got married again in October 🙂
December 18 is now my favorite day ever 🙂
