Edie

I've had a couple of conversations in the last 24 hours, one with my mother, about the emotional contradiction that the Holiday season often presents. I have only happy memories of my childhood experiences at Christmas. But as an adult I've often struggled with feeling like I'm floundering through it, as I emailed a friend today. When recapping my Christmas celebration with English hubby and Sweetpea, I chose to focus on the joy, of which there was a lot to be had. If I focused on the heartache that is sometimes heightened this time of year I'd sink into it.

This time of year is especially poignant for my mother, who is always triggered by memories of her mother when she hears Silent Night sung on Christmas Eve.

The portion of my personality that is curious and fun-loving comes straight from my maternal grandmother. Nanny, which is how my sister and I addressed both our grandmothers.

She was an Irish city girl at heart who married a farmer from the tiny town of Auchnacloy in County Tyrone, near the border. She loved clothes and dancing and had a heart of gold, the last trait shared with my Papa, Fred. He was a farmer in his soul and had a way with animals and the land, but he moved with Edith (or Edie, as he called her) back to the city where she was happiest, away from her mother-in-law who ruled the roost at Glack, the family farm, and made my Nanny's life miserable. Struggling in Belfast to find a way to pay the rent away from his natural affinity for farming, Papa found work doing horse and cart delivery of bread and milk, allowing him to work with the animals he loved. Later he was a streetcar driver, but because he was a bit of a gambler at heart, a salary paid in cash and the time between shifts to gamble meant he often returned home without his pay in his pocket. He was a solid man, but he was saucy.

Partly because of that, and partly because Nanny's sister was living in Canada, my grandparents with their two girls (my Mum and her younger sister) emigrated to Canada not long after WWII, aboard the Dutch ship SS Volendam*. My mother remembers sailing up the St. Lawrence River into sunny Quebec City after having seen whales cavorting at sea, and thinking how colourful and beautiful it seemed after the grey skies of Northern Ireland.

Even though life was hard for them in those early years working on fruit farms owned by family members and bringing home crates of plums and apples, my Nanny never lost her social spirit and her curiousity about everyone and everything.

She was a pistol. At family gatherings, she would make my cousin and I dance for her so she could see the latest moves. She made mouthwatering scone bread, but routinely cooked every last drop of moisture out of a Sunday roast. She would noisily sob with both happiness and sorrow at the drop of a hat, joined by my mother and aunt, even if it was just at grace before dinner. She would laugh uproariously just as often. She and my Papa loved each other, but drove the other nuts. She would screech "Fred, stop your breathing!" when she couldn't stand his rattle anymore. He smoked until the end of his life, but she would make him take his nasty cigarettes and pipes out to the garage, or make him sit over an air sanitizer on the back porch.

My cousins, sister and I often spent weeks at a time with Nanny and Papa in the summer, where freedom reigned for the most part and where she tried in vain (with my aunt) to turn me into a girl by curling my hair and trying to elevate my appreciation for fashion other than t-shirts and cut-offs. It didn't work. She was the most physically affectionate of my four grandparents, and I still remember cuddling with her on the couch and being enfolded in massive hugs.

Nanny was tremendously social and loved her dance and theatre group that she joined as a senior. She hated when we left after visiting, and once drove the hour and a half to our house to bring us a can of whipped cream we'd left in her refrigerator, only to jump back in the car without even coming in our house. I didn't understand until much later that she was clinging to one last moment with us.

She gloried in her four grandchildren's accomplishments and would brag to anyone who would listen. After her death we found a little notebook with statistics about all of us - where we worked, our salaries, our boyfriend's and girlfriend's names.

My Nanny died in a car accident over 20 years ago, four days after my December birthday. I always felt guilty that I hadn't phoned to thank her for my birthday card but as my mother said at the time, she knew how much we loved and appreciated her. I remember when the phone call came from my Papa. We were just sitting down to dinner and I handed the phone to my mother after answering it. I remember her saying "oh Dad" and sinking into a chair, and then my sister and I were on the floor clinging to her legs not knowing what had happened but that it was bad. Later, I nibbled at the edges of our breaded chicken, abandoned on the table, while we rushed around gathering our belongings to drive up to their house.

Even in loss so deep, we could laugh. We learned from the police that she had dashed out of the house without any identification to go pick up a blouse from the dressmaker that she wanted to wear that night. A fashionista to the end.

I still miss her. I remember her smell and how she felt when she hugged me, and I remember her screechy laugh and how she absorbed and exuded pure joie de vivre every day of her life. She and my Papa are a big part of why many of my conversations with English hubby and Sweetpea start with "I remember when....".

Because she was a part of making my childhood magic.

*Historical note:
While researching the Dutch ship SS Volendam, I learned that it had been torpedoed in 1940 with a shipload of British children being evacuated to the U.S. and Canada. It didn't sink, the children were all rescued, and the ship continued to carry immigrants to North America and Australia until it was scrapped in 1952.