At this time of year, my mind invariably wanders back in time to
my childhood. Though I had some sense my situation in many was in
many ways special, the truth is that as a child you live in the
moment and perspective is sealed away for another age.
At this time of year, my mind invariably wanders back in time to my childhood. Though I had some sense my situation in many was in many ways special, the truth is that as a child you live in the moment and perspective is sealed away for another age. Over the years, I have come to understand the fact that I was incredibly lucky to be able to ride my bicycle down the street and over the small bridge to either of my grandparents’ homes. Gramps and Nana, on the Irish Derry side, and Garm and Ang, on the Italian Campodonico side, were very much a part of my young life. They embraced and enjoyed their roles as grandparents, and I learned many traditions and values just by being close to them …
It’s funny what you soak in and what sticks with you. My uncle Jimmy – the one who graciously played any and all sports with me at least for a little while before joining any family gathering be it my sister’s First Communion or Easter brunch with the family – was away at sea one Christmas in the Navy. We missed him. Jim, beloved by friends and family, had a personality as big as a Navy destroyer and a sharp wit that could entertain a crowd. Jim could recite the entire Rudyard Kipling poem “Gunga Din” from memory upon request, and if you know the poem you understand something of Uncle Jim’s persona.
Anyway, my father brought a tape recorder to Gramps and Nana’s house on Christmas Day so that we could tape messages and send them off across the water to our missing adventurer Uncle Jim.
It’s hard to describe how Christmas Day was at the Derrys – so many smiling people coming in to share good cheer and enjoyable company. To a child, every time the sleigh bells on the door jingled and another friend came in with holiday greetings, it represented another sprinkle of fairy dust on another magical Christmas. There wasn’t a better time of year. Friends aplenty, football and leftover oven-broiled turkey sandwiches. It happened that way for years, and I never really expected it to end.
And in some ways it really hasn’t. Jenny and I will have 30 or so over for Christmas brunch this year. The door will open and each time it does, there will be smiles and warm holiday greetings. I’ll make a fire, just like Gramps did, and my wife is very much like Nana was – she’s in her element and happiest when friends of our children, family and friends of ours fill the house with gleeful chatter. I can only hope that someday our children will remember the magic in it all and carry on the Christmas spirit in their own ways.
Lest I depart entirely from the point about to be made a few sentences ago, I’ll go back to Uncle Jim being away at sea. The scene is burned into my memory. My grandfather in his favorite chair in the small den with the cozy fire going, the stream of guests not yet a reality and my father with a tape recorder, a relatively new-fangled gizmo. You have to understand that Gramps’ generation didn’t talk on the phone much. He preferred to write letters – and did so frequently to his children whenever they were away from home. So, I think he measured his words carefully when my father told him about the idea to send a taped message to Uncle Jim and had his message well in hand before speaking. What he said took only a few seconds.
He told Jim in a voice that only those close to him would detect as filled with emotion that everyone missed him a great deal and thought about him, and then he said firmly and with gentle conviction, “… and don’t forget son, work hard, play hard and pray hard.” Even as a child, I quickly recognized that those simple words were the foundation he built his family on. They embodied his philosophy, whether it pertained to running the family feed and fuel business or playing a spirited game of cards at the Elks Club or taking the family to Sunday Mass.
I’ve adopted those words over the years for our three daughters, knowing that simple words are often those with the most staying power to find the course which runs deep in the still waters of the mind and heart. The words, of course, were not and are not just words. They were “not words, but deeds” for my grandfather, “action items” for a happy life which is what I am certain he wanted most for his family.
That same sense extended to my Italian grandparents, who loved their children with all their might and gathered family around some of the most delicious meals I can imagine. And again, my wife has paid tribute to our family traditions – not to mention making her husband eternally happy and grateful – by replicating through many practice efforts the Bolognese sauce which smothered the ravioli during the holidays. Garm’s recipe – which was actually her mother’s before her – is alive and well. And we will make it on Christmas Eve day to serve later on Christmas night.
Garm, fortunately, stayed with us long after both my parents died. This will be the second Christmas without her. She lived well into her 90s and in her own home, no less. Her children and extended family always came to her house for Christmas, and thus the connection to my childhood remained until recently. It’s my fervent wish that the spirit of Christmas gifted to me by my grandparents can be passed to our daughters, their children and their friends. That would make my grandparents happy indeed.
