Meaningful Time of Year
I got home from work today, and became engrossed in my own thoughts about the holidays. I was thinking about the parties, the decorations to be hung, the presents still to be purchased and wrapped. Then it hit me: the first Christmas without my grandfather.
He was a person who really understood what the holidays are supposed to mean. Regardless of religion or traditions, he understood that the holidays are about love and family and laughter and good times. He was the constant host and diplomat between the people he knew and loved. He used to give such cheesy, cheap gifts that he would find. I always laughed when I saw them, and I still have many of them. One of them is a yellow and orange beanie frog that has sat on my dresser for years. Another, a nameplate keychain from New Orleans during one of his many trips with my grandmother. The frog sits next to a letter he wrote me during my confirmation retreat when I was 13. Also in the frame is one of the last photos taken of him, the laminated funeral card, and the program for the memorial service. The letter is what I remember the most. Despite the fact that he was known as "The Demon Typist" for his quick and error-ridden typing, he wrote the most eloquent and thought-out letters to people.
This one in particular strikes me, because it begins by talking about the differences between us, meaning he and I. He never judged his grandchildren, in fact I believe that he became a father for the soul purpose of becoming a grandfather:) I miss him. The things I miss about him have to do with the silly stuff. His perch in the giant recliner in the TV room off of the kitchen, where Darcy, his dog, still goes and sits, waiting for him to come home. His canes hanging by the front door. Someone else must take over fireplace duty on Christmas Eve, and the bird feeders haven't been filled since he died.
I am glad I knew him as well as I did.
He was a person who really understood what the holidays are supposed to mean. Regardless of religion or traditions, he understood that the holidays are about love and family and laughter and good times. He was the constant host and diplomat between the people he knew and loved. He used to give such cheesy, cheap gifts that he would find. I always laughed when I saw them, and I still have many of them. One of them is a yellow and orange beanie frog that has sat on my dresser for years. Another, a nameplate keychain from New Orleans during one of his many trips with my grandmother. The frog sits next to a letter he wrote me during my confirmation retreat when I was 13. Also in the frame is one of the last photos taken of him, the laminated funeral card, and the program for the memorial service. The letter is what I remember the most. Despite the fact that he was known as "The Demon Typist" for his quick and error-ridden typing, he wrote the most eloquent and thought-out letters to people.
This one in particular strikes me, because it begins by talking about the differences between us, meaning he and I. He never judged his grandchildren, in fact I believe that he became a father for the soul purpose of becoming a grandfather:) I miss him. The things I miss about him have to do with the silly stuff. His perch in the giant recliner in the TV room off of the kitchen, where Darcy, his dog, still goes and sits, waiting for him to come home. His canes hanging by the front door. Someone else must take over fireplace duty on Christmas Eve, and the bird feeders haven't been filled since he died.
I am glad I knew him as well as I did.