I'll be home...
As far as Christmases go, this one wasn't bad in and of itself. I had a lovely time with the family, had great meals, and got fun stuff (as well as money to buy other fun stuff I didn't get).
However, on Christmas Eve, right when we were finishing up the movie "Elf" on pay-per-view, Greg got a call that his grandmother on his dad's side just passed away. She was 96 years old, still living with her husband of 71 years (would've been 72 this January), and passed on after going down for a nap. The death, in and of itself, was not unexpected...though I think the family expected the husband to go first (he is 98) before her, but apparently, she'd had a bad couple of weeks.
Yesterday, we went to the receiving of friends/funeral, and this morning, we went to the burial. In the six years of us dating, I'd only met her a handful of times, and I doubt she remembered me all that well (she had a hard enough time remembering the names of her many children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren), but it was still hard to see the various shades of grief that people carried. I felt odd and out-of-place for that...knowing how many people in the room knew her so much better, but I guess that's the little voyeur in me...the writer, I should say, who watches the human reaction and tucks it away for later use.
Last night's service made me wish I remembered my grandfather's memorial service more. I remember the experience...standing by the doorways of the church, dressed in a bright pink jacket and skirt set with black trim (because I had NOTHING nice that was black), and running to hug certain people when they arrived. I remember giving a hug to our long-time veterinarian (Dr. John) who thought so well of the family. I remember seeing a van pull up and my grandfather's brothers helping their MOTHER out, and I remember thinking how tragic it is for a parent to outlive their own children, no matter what the ages.
But the service itself I don't remember. I wonder if it's a good thing that I don't. I feel services should be a celebration of the person's life and what they meant to people, and because my family did not go to church at the time, we had a pastor leading the service who probably couldn't have done my grandfather much justice.
Oh well, I digress. It's just odd though how tragedy of any and every kind strikes on the holiday. A friend had to put her dog down. A friend of my grandmother's had to drive up to Indiana in a blizzard to get her boyfriend (what a horrible term for a non-married couple at that age) who'd suffered sudden health issues but couldn't get out of the house. Hell, even Reggie White (famous for football but moreso for his ministry) passed away this weekend.
And Greg's grandmother died.
It reminds me not so much of what little time I have. Instead, it reminds me to not take for granted the people I spend time with. That's ultimately (regardless of your religion) is what the holidays are about: being with the family and friends you care about and celebrating what you hold dear.
***
Happy Holidays, everyone.
However, on Christmas Eve, right when we were finishing up the movie "Elf" on pay-per-view, Greg got a call that his grandmother on his dad's side just passed away. She was 96 years old, still living with her husband of 71 years (would've been 72 this January), and passed on after going down for a nap. The death, in and of itself, was not unexpected...though I think the family expected the husband to go first (he is 98) before her, but apparently, she'd had a bad couple of weeks.
Yesterday, we went to the receiving of friends/funeral, and this morning, we went to the burial. In the six years of us dating, I'd only met her a handful of times, and I doubt she remembered me all that well (she had a hard enough time remembering the names of her many children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren), but it was still hard to see the various shades of grief that people carried. I felt odd and out-of-place for that...knowing how many people in the room knew her so much better, but I guess that's the little voyeur in me...the writer, I should say, who watches the human reaction and tucks it away for later use.
Last night's service made me wish I remembered my grandfather's memorial service more. I remember the experience...standing by the doorways of the church, dressed in a bright pink jacket and skirt set with black trim (because I had NOTHING nice that was black), and running to hug certain people when they arrived. I remember giving a hug to our long-time veterinarian (Dr. John) who thought so well of the family. I remember seeing a van pull up and my grandfather's brothers helping their MOTHER out, and I remember thinking how tragic it is for a parent to outlive their own children, no matter what the ages.
But the service itself I don't remember. I wonder if it's a good thing that I don't. I feel services should be a celebration of the person's life and what they meant to people, and because my family did not go to church at the time, we had a pastor leading the service who probably couldn't have done my grandfather much justice.
Oh well, I digress. It's just odd though how tragedy of any and every kind strikes on the holiday. A friend had to put her dog down. A friend of my grandmother's had to drive up to Indiana in a blizzard to get her boyfriend (what a horrible term for a non-married couple at that age) who'd suffered sudden health issues but couldn't get out of the house. Hell, even Reggie White (famous for football but moreso for his ministry) passed away this weekend.
And Greg's grandmother died.
It reminds me not so much of what little time I have. Instead, it reminds me to not take for granted the people I spend time with. That's ultimately (regardless of your religion) is what the holidays are about: being with the family and friends you care about and celebrating what you hold dear.
***
Happy Holidays, everyone.