Home For The Holidays

The older I get, the more “home” becomes less a brick and mortar place to kick off my shoes and more an affirmation of love and belonging… it comes on me like the love alien that possessed Zefram Cochrane on Star Trek (It doesn’t matter if you don’t remember that episode). Sometimes I feel at “home” and sometimes I don’t. But I don’t associate it with a place… just people… and peace.

Dixie and I left Ireland on November 11th to go to the St Pete bungalow formerly known as “home” to finish the clean out then have the final closing on the 15th. I was taking my sweet time with those final loads to the Salvation Army just because I could.  But on the 13th, amid boxes of mismatched glassware and faded sheets, I got the call I had been expecting and dreading for two years. My mother in Georgia was sinking fast and if I didn’t drop everything and go go go, I wouldn’t get in that final farewell. It was mid afternoon around three. 

A few quick phone calls and I was at the title office scribbling my signature on who-knows-what. Phil, my haul away hero, once again offered (or at least agreed) to come to my rescue with his truck that could probably drive itself to the donation center by now. No time to sweep the floor or double check the cupboards. Off Dixie and I sped to Roswell. Phil had a key and a day to get the job finished.

The day of my mother's funeral

An adrenaline inspired road trip in the dark isn’t half bad. Not much traffic and you really don’t get sleepy. We arrived “home” in Roswell around 1:30 AM and were told the family had all decided to sleep instead of keeping a constant bedside vigil. A few days later we were all by my mother’s side when she peacefully passed from this world to the next. She was ready. She had told my brother a few weeks before that she was anxious to get to heaven and “see what it’s all about.” She was 93. Her mother died at 93 as did my other grandmother as well as my Irish born ancestor, James Johnson. I’m going to get very nervous when I turn 92.

All the family came into town for the funeral and we scattered my mother’s ashes around the big rock in the big woods where she played as a child… her childhood “home”.  Whosever idea that was… brilliant! It was a beautiful time together as memorials often are. Everyone loved my mother dearly, and she left a legacy of family unity and hilarious stories that we will cherish and pass on down the line. 

It’s the end of an era, and we are humbled by the elegance of time.

Then it was back to St Pete on the 21st where I had one day to get my annual routine medical appointments in. Talk about timing. We flew to Dallas for Thanksgiving on the 23rd.

My first grandchild, age six weeks, was anxiously waiting to meet his Grammy. My feelings were mixed of course but tilting sharply toward the joy side. I had been anticipating this visit for a long time… years actually.  Needless to say, little Gregory did not disappoint. He greeted me with big bluish-greenish-brownish (who can tell?) eyes, a couple of stinky blowouts and another new “home”, where I knew I would always love and be loved and welcome. We bonded quick and are plotting together as I write this to have him overnight himself to Ireland. It’ll be a first but we’re going to make it happen.

Ted and Leah from Tampa joined us in Dallas for Thanksgiving as has become our tradition in recent years. They made the exciting announcement that, after being in the adoption process for what seems to me like forever, they had been matched with a donor (that’s probably not what you call it because that makes the baby seem like a liver or a kidney), but nonetheless, they were expecting their little Long Awaited One on Christmas Day (just like Mary and Joseph). We were all a mixture of shock and exuberance and urgency. They had no nursery, no car seat, no imagining their dream could come true with so little notice.

We wished them well as they flew back on Dec 1, not much time to let it sink in. They had not even unpacked when they got the call that the birth mother was in labor, little Jesus was jumping the gun and if they didn’t drop everything and go go go, they wouldn’t get there in time for the first triumphant baby breath! It was a four hour drive to Ft Lauderdale. 

But an adrenaline inspired road trip in the dark isn’t half bad. Not much traffic and you really don’t get sleepy. My second grandchild proved to be both patient and considerate. She graciously waited until they arrived to make her appearance, with 30 minutes to spare. Leah was in the delivery room and cut the cord. After a few days in the NICU for observation, the happy, healthy family of three left the hospital on Dec 6th and I flew back from Dallas to Tampa on schedule on the 10th. A short “home” visit to meet Carolina (pronounced Caroleena) before Dixie and I flew back to Ireland on the 12th. 


It’s the beginning of an era and we are humbled by the elegance of time.

I’ll be spending Christmas at “home”… with Dixie and his family and all our friends here. Then many trips in the new year for all of us to experience our various “homes”.

Merry Christmas to you and your “home” in all its forms.