♥ Where the Lovelight Gleams ♥

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As I was making my lasagna today, I was visited by my Ghost of Christmas Past. I was thinking that I make lasagna every Christmas, and is that odd? My college boyfriend’s family ordered out for Chinese food every Christmas Eve, so I thought to myself, lasagna was too far off the beaten path of Chinese food. Most importantly, it had become my tradition.

When growing up, I didn't think we had any family traditions. Well, my Dad always put the lights on the tree. And, while Santa brought us presents; my Dad also bought us each a present from him. So, I guess there were a few traditions. And, my Mom always made sure everything (presents and food) was just right.

I remember that when my paternal grandfather, Dziadzia, came for Christmas, he’d bring with him a big bag of these greasy blueberries muffins; God, they were so good. His present was always a crisp $20 bill tucked into an envelope from the Webster Savings Bank.

When my maternal grandmother, Granny, arrived, she’d have a paper shopping bag that contained a jar of pickles, a box of Ring Dings, and the latest issue of the National Enquirer. What a combination, huh? My parents didn’t subscribe to the National Enquirer nor did they ever read it; however, when Granny brought it, my siblings and I grabbed it and read every page!

Anyway, I was thinking that next Christmas, I need to start my own tradition, given that all those “traditions” were gone; and sadly, they were gone along with the people who started them. And, I missed them, my Mom, my Dad, and my grandparents. Most importantly, I knew what my tradition would be, because it was also the best gift I think I ever gave anyone.

About four years ago, Iz’s Dad mentioned that his college ROTC advisor, Sergeant Brown, had died. He only found out, because Sergeant Brown’s brother contacted him three months after the fact. He then said over a glass of red wine and a steak in Morton’s in Pittsburgh in July, that he'd really like to know where he was buried.

That Christmas, I had no idea what to get him. He had three interests then; they were Iz, work, and golf. So, I took it upon myself to find Sergeant Brown. Over dinner that night, he mentioned the town where Sergeant Brown was from in Connecticut.

In December, I called the town hall in the town he mentioned. They had a record of a Phil Brown being buried. In turn, they gave me the phone number of the funeral home that been responsible for the services.

I called the funeral home, and at that time, I was beginning to feel a lot like Columbo, which wasn’t so bad given I love the crime shows! The funeral home told me he was buried in the cemetery next to the funeral home.

The Saturday before Christmas, I hired a sitter for Iz. I told Iz’s Dad, John, that his Christmas present was a field trip for which we had to travel, two and a half hours to be exact. He got this look on his face when I told him that at a certain point during the trip, that he must close his eyes. Yes, I think he thought he might end up starring in an episode of “Forensic Files.”

We got into the car, and I drove for 2.5 hours until we reached the funeral home. I panicked, because I didn’t see a cemetery nearby. I drove around the back of the funeral home in frustration, and I just happened to notice a headstone in the thickly wooded area beyond the trees.

There was a paved entry in between a grove of trees. I drove through, and there I saw the well hidden cemetery. I parked, and then I told John to keep his eyes closed and wait.

I jumped out of the car and saw about 200 headstones. I knew I had to go by each and every one to find Phil if he was really in this cemetery. After headstone 72, I came upon it. Sergeant Phil Brown. I gasped when I saw it. It looked as if no one had ever visited it. But, at the same time, it seemed to say, “I’m so glad you’ve come to visit me.”

I went back to the car and opened the passenger side door. I told John to keep his eyes closed. He made some joke about me pushing him into a ditch. (Hmmm. I hadn’t yet thought about that then!)

I took his hand, told him to keep his eyes closed, and I led him to Sergeant Brown’s headstone. When we were in front of it, I said, “Open your eyes now.” He did.

He said, “Oh, my God.” He knelt down, touched the stone with his right hand, and then I saw him get weepy. I said, “I’m going to leave you two alone now.”

I went back to the car, popped the trunk, and I pulled out a Christmas memorial log I’d brought to put at Sergeant Brown’s headstone. I brought it back, and I said, “Here, I thought you might want to leave this.” John put it in front of the headstone. He looked up at me and said, “Thank you.”

Anway, I decided that next year, everyone will have to each give a gift of the heart to another. It will be the gift of yourself, something that cannot be bought, but shows how much you love and care about the person you are giving it to.

Lastly, the holidays are a time we celebrate with family; it’s also a time we miss family, especially family that is not here anymore. My friend, Tunabreath (a.k.a Melissa) told me how much she was missing her sister, Sherrie, this year. I know that feeling well.

For Melissa and I, home is where the heart is. And, because they've never left our hearts, they are always here at home with us embedded deeply in our hearts. ♥

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