Great grandpa was a newsboy who marked suspect vans for the Irish republicans, then a tailor who fought for them. When he broke great grandma out of the laundry and stowed away to NY, his trained hands could find work only behind the wheel of a city bus. He found a new peace with his family, sewing my grandma’s pockets shut to make her walk with confidence, but he sent a portion of his paycheck back to the army until the day he died. This isn’t his, and I don’t think he’d approve of it. Still, I feel close to him every time I mend a new pinhole.

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I always take the winding two lane mountain road home from work, it’s 8 minutes longer and so much prettier than the interstate. I see longhorn cows, sheep, goats, fluorescent red sugar maples. Yesterday I took a trip to visit my grandmothers grave with my mother and my 101 year old grandpa. Over a century later, he still remembers every old road and scenic back way to get around, who lived in what house, where they worked, who were friends, enemies, and lovers. He told me stories about every nook and cranny in that tiny town nestled among the Blue Ridge. Building the church on the corner of the graveyard and using popcorn in the mortar which got so hot it popped. Exploring the flour mill with his friends which today is a miniature museum of the town history. How he and his fellow boy scouts used buckets and shovels to help fight the raging fire that spread across the mountain range. He showed me the railroad his father was a pipefitter on and the few blocks he walked to work, the corner their little dog would wait dutifully for his whistle to come running after hearing the work bell every evening. He sang me the song about catfish they used to sing while bathing in the calm river in the summer months, the same river that claimed the life of his brother in law. I miss the city and our friends, but I know we have so much time to make our own stories in the decades to come. I feel so blessed that I have him in my life and to be living again in my hometown to hear these stories and so many others. I am so grateful that he gets to spend time with my husband and celebrate the joining of our families. If you’re lucky enough to have a grandparent or any elder in your life, give them a call or pay them a visit and let them tell you stories, even the ones you’ve heard before. Ask questions about what it was like when they were your age and tell them how much you love them.
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My grandfather passed away last year and my family recently went through his things. I took a compass, a keychain flask, and a pocket knife. I think he would love the idea of a chic young woman such as myself pulling out his compass in the middle of Bushwick to seem like an individual or taking a shot from his flask during the Nowadays “safe space” speech.
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There were two Margarets in our family; she was 5’1” hence the nickname. Born in County Clare 🇮🇪 - I doubt she even knew her real mom - and raised in poverty in LA by a relative once she had landed in the U.S. She made amazing oatmeal and tuna sandwiches when I was sad; she lived close enough to my parents that sometimes I would walk home to her house instead of my parents’ on the way home from school. I went through confirmation only because of her (didn’t believe much in Catholicism otherwise and still don’t). I lived with her for awhile one summer during college. She was an amazing roommate. I learned so much about life and our family. She was my favorite human, our family matriarch / badass and I miss her everyday. Thanks Gran ❤️
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