Carols in Latin

Christmas was the realization of how I've visualized it to be since childhood. All of the festivities leading up to it were completely heart-warming. I had a blast at the annual junk-from-your-attic yankee swap gift exchange with the Chards, the Christmas Eve cocktail party with the O'Connells, and of course dinner with the relatives at Grandpa's and a peaceful midnight mass. Yet it all led up to Christmas evening in our house, with the candles flickering on the mantle over a soft stone-hugged fire. With Christmas hymns on the stereo and the sparkling tree ornated with memories spanning the generations, we remembered our blessings.
Traditionally, after the chocolate mousse and wine, I play a few Christmas tunes on the piano, and our small group of 10 gathers to sing. I excused myself from dinner early to practice a bit (18 months in Mali left me a little rusty on the ivories). It wasn't long before my grandpa wandered in. Always a bit embarrassed about my mother's rule for Christmas attire- pajamas- I smiled when he arrived sporting black-and-white crossword puzzle flannels.
He began singing over my shoulder. He can carry a tune for sure, complemented by old-fashioned vibrato and the distinctive whistle in his voice. “I was in the boys' choir at St. Something-Or-Others'” he reminds me every year, which is why he knows most of the Latin text.
The small window of which I know my grandpa spans this short frame of his life. But suddenly I found myself longing to know the entirety. What I've come to realize lately is the cliché, “respecting your elders' is not rooted in pity or obligation, but in the value of someone who has seen and lived and learned through a great deal more than you have.
I paid him a visit after New Year's, and we talked more than I ever remember us having before. Family, religion, the quest for the American dream in this century and the last...all over some photo albums and a jigsaw puzzle- (as far as I can remember, I've never seen him without one). This is my heritage, I thought, everything that happened in my grandfather's life is amazingly significant to my existence, my upbringing, and my identity.
In Mali, news about my grandfather usually comes like “He's doing well” but “he's getting old” or “he's slowing down.” At 88, most of his friends have passed before him. And when it gets harder and harder to get out of an empty house and enjoy his favorite pastimes, I suppose we always worried that he didn't have enough to keep him going. I learned though, as I spend the holidays with him, that he has not checked out yet. On the contrary, he seems to be enjoying life even more these days. I never knew he walked for exercise or still goes to mass twice a week. What I always knew, was how proud he is of his family- not in a haughty but in a fatherly-nod-of-approval kind of way. He raised an impressive one- eight amazingly successful children, fifteen smart and promising grandkids, and one adorable grandchild.
Year after year we'd hear him say, “I won't have many Thanksgivings left” or “This could be my last Christmas.” None of that this time. Leaving him back last year was unsettling, so you can imagine my joy when my “I'll see you next fall” was followed by a strong, affirmative hug.
“Absolutely,” he said.