I first met my husband’s grandparents when I was 19. As we departed their century-old farmhouse, Grandpa Jim approached a kitchen drawer, rummaged around, and placed an item in my palm. He said, “Travel safe,” giving my hand a gentle pat, his hazel eyes sparkling with a warmth that can only come from a man born on St. Patrick’s Day.
Looking down, I saw a plain rock with a hole drilled through it. At that moment, I nodded as if I understood its significance, but truthfully, I did not.
Fast forward sixteen years. I am in a hospital, assisted by two nurses as I muster the strength to stand for the first time after giving birth to my daughter. Exhausted and unsteady, I watch as one nurse tidies up my sheets, inadvertently dropping something hard on the floor. She bends down and retrieves four unremarkable rocks threaded with a ribbon. They looked a bit shabby and possibly unclean.
Eagerly, I extend my hand, exclaiming, “Yes! That’s mine!” She glances at the rocks and me with curiosity, but I realize that explaining their meaning would take more time than she likely has. So, I say nothing and tuck the rocks away.
It was on the day that Grandpa Jim gifted me that first rock that my husband explained its meaning: a cherished Irish symbol representing safe travels—a tradition upheld by his family for generations. Since then, I have never embarked on a journey without one. Therefore, I couldn’t possibly allow my daughter to begin her first great adventure without at least one magical rock.
When my father-in-law sent me four of these rocks prior to Nora’s birth, I took them to the hospital, holding onto them tightly throughout the entire labor process, enduring contractions, needles, the pushing, and the overwhelming mixture of joy and exhaustion that accompanied the arrival of my daughter—just like magic.
Recently, my husband’s grandparents both passed away, just eight days apart, a remarkable coincidence as they were also born eight days apart. They shared 73 years of love, parenting two boys, while facing the heartache of losing one. They became my cherished grandparents too.
In the days following Grandpa Jim’s passing, Grandma Lila began reminiscing about their lost son. She had never fully recovered from that tragedy and had never spoken his name aloud. Eventually, she entered the often comforting haze of dementia, and I can’t blame her for that escape.
On that eighth day, I can envision Grandma Lila, with newfound clarity after years of fog, slipping a small, unremarkable rock into her pocket, lying down, and contemplating that last drop of magic coursing through the heart of the stone, ensuring her final journey would be safe.
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In summary, the transmission of family traditions, like the significance of a simple rock, can carry profound meaning across generations, weaving a magical thread through the fabric of our lives.
Keyphrase: family traditions and safe travels
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