“Grammy.” That’s what I always called my grandmother, because when I was little, I couldn’t quite say “Grandmother.” Since then, she’s been “Grammy” to everyone close to her. No other name brings to mind such a vivid picture of a person for me—whenever I hear it, I immediately think of her.
Grammy had a way of making a lasting impact on everyone she met. She was strong, yet gentle. Opinionated, but always a good listener. She held firm beliefs, but never turned away from hearing someone else’s side. Grammy grew up in difficult times, born in 1930, and her life was marked by both struggle and resilience. She faced more change and hardship than many of us will ever know. Through her journey—moving from the old country, starting fresh in America, raising her children, and watching her grandchildren grow—Grammy was the constant in our lives. She was always there to give wise advice or offer a loving, steady hand to guide us.
One thing that defined Grammy was her pride in her heritage and her talent in the kitchen. Sunday mornings were special because of her famous potato pancakes, which were like nothing you could find anywhere else. And she never let me leave her house without breakfast, a meal that would make any kid envious. I often asked her to teach me how to cook those dishes that seemed to come so effortlessly to her. But every cooking lesson came with a little nugget of wisdom—about family, tradition, or her homeland.
One of Grammy’s most defining characteristics was her faith. She was a dedicated member of her church choir for decades, and her voice left a mark on everyone who heard it. When I was young, I had the honor of singing alongside her, and now, looking back, that has become one of my fondest memories. Many of our family milestones were centered around the church: First Communions, Christmas services, and Easter traditions. Grammy’s presence made these moments richer and more meaningful.
Christmas Eve always held a special place in our family, and Grammy was at the heart of it. We celebrated the traditional Christmas Eve dinner, where the kitchen was her kingdom. I would try sneaking bites of food, only for her to chase me away, laughing. She’d always tell me there was still more to be done and refused to sit down until everyone else had eaten. Her holiday meals were nothing short of masterpieces. But after the hustle and bustle had died down, and the family had gone home, Grammy would finally sit by the Christmas tree, holding me close and singing a quiet lullaby—“Silent Night,” in her soft voice. It’s a memory I will carry with me forever, and it’s one I continue with my own children.
As this Christmas Eve approaches, it’s clear it will be different. Grammy may no longer be physically with us, but she is never far from our thoughts. She lives on in our traditions, in our hearts, and in the countless ways she shaped our lives. Even those who only met her briefly came to love her—that’s just the kind of person she was.
For me, I find comfort in knowing that Grammy is with Grandpa now, watching over all of us, just as she always did. And while it’s hard to imagine a Christmas without her, I know she’s still here, guiding us in her quiet, gentle way.