My grandmother died. Alright, she wasn't my grandmother, she was my cousins. But I was taught to call her grandma. No one told me that she wasn't. So for the first few years of my life I thought that she was. After all didn't everyone have 3 sets of grandparents? ;o) Eventually I figured it out, but I kept calling her grandma.
She was a nice, cheerful, Italian women who was a good cook, and loved her family. At the memorial, most of the stories centered around her love of family, and cooking. I guess that doesn't sound extraordinary in writing, but if you knew her then you knew someone special. She lived to the ripe old age of 96. The last of the grandparents to die. My three sets of grandparents have all left this earth. A whole generation has died off.
Wasn't it just yesterday that we all were at our summer place at the 1000 Islands? Didn't we all just take a swim together? Yesterday didn't we go boating, and fishing together? Eat freshly caught Pike with home made dressing together? Didn't we just play several hands of cards together; the whole family? Today a generation disappeared.
Those of us who are left have all moved up a generation. My parents generation is now the oldest. My generation is second oldest, and so on. This is the way of things. Such is life. But it hurts! A generation disappeared, but will always be remembered.
The older I get, the more I cling to those precious memories when I was a kid at our second home at the 1000 Islands. Both sides of my family were together. Everyone was alive, young, and had fun together. We had time. When your a kid you think that things won't change. But oh, my, how things have changed!
I don't believe in worshiping the dead, as some people do. But I think that they may be on to something. I won't worship the dead, but I do feel like honoring the dead in a specially way. Some sort of small ceremony, maybe once a month, or season. I will have to think about how to do that. At any rate I do remember.
A generation disappears. Gone, but never forgotten.