My favorite holiday memories
Someone on the flist asked for favorite holiday memories and I started to type this up as a comment there when I realized it was getting long. Thus, I'm making it into a post, instead. My favorite holiday memories all blur into one giant lump of memories as my birthday is in October, quickly followed by Thanksgiving in November, Christmas in December and Orthodox Christmas in January. They all revolve around my grandfather.
When I was a little girl, I worshiped my grandfather. We called him Bubby or Bubbup, a German form of endearment that his parents had used when they lived in Germany/Austro-Hungary. My grandfather was first-generation American and a very sedate man. He had a thousand and one odd mannerisms, at least to my way of little girl mind.
What're you doing, Bubby? We'd ask as he napped on the recliner. He'd respond I'm checking my eyelids for pinholes. and we'd all giggle. He had a witty comeback for all of us.
By the time I was old enough to start remembering, he was already slipping into Alzheimer's and dementia. His mind started regressing when we lost my Nana (I was about 3). One of the things he would never forget were birthdays. Every year, on my birthday, he would send me a card and twenty bucks. Considering that he'd been a mechanic for Greyhound, that was a huge amount of money. He always drove a Ford and is probably spinning circles in his grave that I drive a Japanese sports car. He'd sometimes come up and tinker on my mum's 67 Mercury Cougar. I remember sitting on the dirt next to the car as he'd poke his head under the hood. Sometimes, he'd ask me to hand him something and boy howdy was that hammer heavy when you're a teeny girl of four.
The four of us siblings always got him a Hickory Farms assortment, a bag of salted peanuts, a set of pjs and a pair of slippers for Christmas.
When I was four, we developed a tradition that continued until I was 12. You see, I'd discovered my love of pumpkin pie by then. In the middle of the night, I snuck out of my bedroom and carefully pulled the pie down onto the kitchen floor with me. I used my fingers and scooped all the pie filling that my little tumbly could hold. In the middle of my midnight foray, Bubby caught me. Thinking I'd be in an enormous amount of trouble, I waited for him to go get my mum and I'd get sent to my room. Heck, I might even miss out on sitting next to Bubby at Thanksgiving dinner the next day (this was the ultimate reward and treat. You had to be good for MONTHS to get to sit next to Bubby).
Instead, my Bubby walked to the silverware drawer, pulled out two spoons and handed me one without saying a word. We made our way through that entire pie that night and then he carried me to my bed and tucked me in. I know that he had to have talked to my mum about where the pie went because I was never punished and my mum never reacted. The pie crust was filled with whipped cream.
When Christmas rolled around, I snuck out once more to get the pumpkin pie. There were two pies, after all. When I got to the kitchen, Bubby sat at the table with one of them, two spoons at the ready. We sat there and ate all that pie filling (and left the crust) once more. We never really talked during these moments throughout the years that the tradition continued. I remember mock spoon wars, fighting over one certain piece. Sometimes, Bubby would make the spoons dance. Sometimes, he'd fall asleep. Without fail, we'd always leave the pie crust. Eventually, I got too big for him to carry. Eventually, he slipped into dementia and the midnight pie forays stopped.
Eventually, he called me by my mother's name and called my mum "Snacky", his nickname for my Nana.
My Bubby died January 2nd, 1993. He was 86 years old.
I still don't eat the pie crust.
When I was a little girl, I worshiped my grandfather. We called him Bubby or Bubbup, a German form of endearment that his parents had used when they lived in Germany/Austro-Hungary. My grandfather was first-generation American and a very sedate man. He had a thousand and one odd mannerisms, at least to my way of little girl mind.
What're you doing, Bubby? We'd ask as he napped on the recliner. He'd respond I'm checking my eyelids for pinholes. and we'd all giggle. He had a witty comeback for all of us.
By the time I was old enough to start remembering, he was already slipping into Alzheimer's and dementia. His mind started regressing when we lost my Nana (I was about 3). One of the things he would never forget were birthdays. Every year, on my birthday, he would send me a card and twenty bucks. Considering that he'd been a mechanic for Greyhound, that was a huge amount of money. He always drove a Ford and is probably spinning circles in his grave that I drive a Japanese sports car. He'd sometimes come up and tinker on my mum's 67 Mercury Cougar. I remember sitting on the dirt next to the car as he'd poke his head under the hood. Sometimes, he'd ask me to hand him something and boy howdy was that hammer heavy when you're a teeny girl of four.
The four of us siblings always got him a Hickory Farms assortment, a bag of salted peanuts, a set of pjs and a pair of slippers for Christmas.
When I was four, we developed a tradition that continued until I was 12. You see, I'd discovered my love of pumpkin pie by then. In the middle of the night, I snuck out of my bedroom and carefully pulled the pie down onto the kitchen floor with me. I used my fingers and scooped all the pie filling that my little tumbly could hold. In the middle of my midnight foray, Bubby caught me. Thinking I'd be in an enormous amount of trouble, I waited for him to go get my mum and I'd get sent to my room. Heck, I might even miss out on sitting next to Bubby at Thanksgiving dinner the next day (this was the ultimate reward and treat. You had to be good for MONTHS to get to sit next to Bubby).
Instead, my Bubby walked to the silverware drawer, pulled out two spoons and handed me one without saying a word. We made our way through that entire pie that night and then he carried me to my bed and tucked me in. I know that he had to have talked to my mum about where the pie went because I was never punished and my mum never reacted. The pie crust was filled with whipped cream.
When Christmas rolled around, I snuck out once more to get the pumpkin pie. There were two pies, after all. When I got to the kitchen, Bubby sat at the table with one of them, two spoons at the ready. We sat there and ate all that pie filling (and left the crust) once more. We never really talked during these moments throughout the years that the tradition continued. I remember mock spoon wars, fighting over one certain piece. Sometimes, Bubby would make the spoons dance. Sometimes, he'd fall asleep. Without fail, we'd always leave the pie crust. Eventually, I got too big for him to carry. Eventually, he slipped into dementia and the midnight pie forays stopped.
Eventually, he called me by my mother's name and called my mum "Snacky", his nickname for my Nana.
My Bubby died January 2nd, 1993. He was 86 years old.
I still don't eat the pie crust.