One of my favorite traditions in December occurs one week prior to Christmas and has little to do with the holiday. In fact it is a celebration of a different birth.  One that occurred 94 years ago in 1922.  It is the celebration of Sophie.  Sophie is mother of three, grandmother of six, great-grandmother of eight, the ultimate matriarch, and we all relish the annual opportunity to show her love.


Cataloging all of my memories of this beauty is simply impossible as she has shared in so moments from the mundane to the extraordinary. I am challenged to think of a time or a place where she wasn’t by my side offering up frank advice with dash of spunk and spoonful of kindness or a soft, melt-a-way hug to make all right in my world.  For that, I consider myself a very lucky girl.

Best girls.
Smooches at my rehearsal dinner.
Meeting the fourth generation, Eliza.

Grandma, my kindred spirit,

I have always believed you were the best Grandma.  Now, as a mother, I see your sacrifices and dedication in a different light and I know that it is true.  You are still glowing, even on dark days, the warmth of your love shining through.  Things aren’t the same as they once were.  I don’t call you from the bar when the Yankees win a play off game.  You can’t muster the energy to join me out for dinner.  No one to blame, but the sometimes brutal circle of life.  I can only imagine how hard it is getting older.  Losing your true love and dear friends a life time ago.  Though I see you on a weekly basis, I miss you.  I miss us, but I haven’t forgotten the example you set, lessons you taught me, and definitely not the love we share.  It’s always there.  Always.

Happy birthday, Grandma!

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