12/13/24 - Friday Forget-Me-Nots by Jim Silcott

Photo Caption: No Room at the Inn

Dear Our Lady of Peace Family,

In November of 1967, my dad’s father died unexpectedly at the relatively young age of 62. 

My dad and mom were in their thirties. Addie, as we grandchildren called him, was the first of my grandparents to pass away and the whole family mourned the premature death of this tall, stately looking gentleman who loved to read about history and watch cowboy westerns on the television. Once, when taking my sister and me to Williamsburg with our grandmother, he walked a quarter of a mile on the highway to retrieve my three-cornered hat which had blown out of the car window. 

I have four sisters and a brother, and my mom and dad decided that for Christmas that year we would spend it with my grandmother in her large home on Edmundson Ave. in Baltimore, Maryland. And so, the nine of us, 

six children, two parents and a large black lab named Christopher Blue, somehow squeezed into a regular-sized sedan and traveled six hours south on the New Jersey Turnpike to be with Mom-Mom and her mother, our great-grandmother Norton for Christmas. 

It was a large, white-shingled home on the corner across the street from a movie theater. The home was actually in Catonsville, on the western side of Baltimore. It had a large front porch that went the length of the front of the house. Inside the front door was the parlor with a huge, curved staircase. The large Christmas tree sat in the corner in that curve, and it seemed to reach all the way to the second floor. The living room had a large bookshelf full of my grandfather’s books and his chair sat next to it. The kitchen was divided into two rooms, a dining area with cupboards and a small room with the sink and oven. There was a small back staircase in the corner. Upstairs, there were four big bedrooms and one large bathroom. 

My favorite part of the house, however, was the large attic which held a multitude of treasures. I would spend hours going through crates and boxes discovering pictures and old sporting equipment, metal soldiers that my dad played with when he was a kid, and a sword that belonged to my grandfather’s grandfather, a veteran of the Civil War on the Southern side. I also took books from the living room shelf and found a well-lighted corner at one of the attic eaves windows to get away from the busyness of the rest my large family. 

We entered the house a couple of days before Christmas and warmly greeted Mom-Mom whom we had last seen at the funeral the month before. She had an old mutt named Terry, and Terry and Christopher Blue decided immediately that they did not like one another. They got into a huge fight in the front parlor, almost knocking down the magnificent Christmas tree. For the rest of the trip, one or the other got to hang out in the basement. 

We got to see our many cousins on my dad’s side and visit my mom’s parents on the other side of Baltimore and all those cousins as well. Despite our sadness, we had a great visit that year. Mom-

Mom always served dinner on real China plates with sterling silver utensils. I only remember one Christmas present from that year:a plastic pencil case with a map of the world on its cover. 

Back then, I never considered what my grandmother was going through. That was the last Christmas in the big house. Mom-Mom was a Third-grade teacher at her parish school, St. Mark’s. Because St. Mark’s offered no health insurance, my grandmother had to take a job with Baltimore City Schools. She sold the house and moved into an apartment and lived long enough to see two of my children born. 

On my trips back to Baltimore, which have become more infrequent over the years, I pass the house on Edmundson Ave. It looks smaller than I remember. I wouldn’t want to visit inside. It wouldn’t look the same, of course. I would rather keep my memories of the house as I knew it, alive in my mind’s eye. 

Things changed for my family after that Christmas as well. I didn’t know it at the time, but we would never spend another Christmas in our Northport home as my dad’s job took us to Columbus the following March. 

I am now six years older than my grandfather at his death. The rest of my grandparents, as well as my own parents are not here to celebrate Christmas with us, and yet their memories live on in us and their spirit is with God in heaven. Our homes here, whether big or little, with back stairs or not, are temporary. We embrace and enjoy them. Our home with God is everlasting and one day we will all be together. 

Jim Silcott