One year ago I was riding my horse on Washoe Lake. With just a dusting of snow, it was early afternoon, not too cold for me or my mare Bridgid. But, the phone call I was about to receive would send a chill up my spine. It was my sister Monica who asked me where I was and what I was doing. She said not to panic, but continue to ride safely back to the truck, my father had just had a stroke.

The news was not a suprise. My father was in his 90s and all of us in the family knew it was just a matter of time. He was going to die of something sooner than later we believed as my mother had died of breast cancer just 6 months before. When I got to my family's home my sister Debbie, who had discovered my father nearly motionless earlier in the day, greeted me. I went in to his bedroom to see him. He grabbed my hair and pulled me close  with his left hand and whispered something unintelligible into my ear. I would later learn that he was suppose to be paralyzed on that side.  Hospice was notified and all any of us could do was wait. He died on Christmas Eve 2007 at two in afternoon.

My hope was that our family, so close when my parents were alive, would not decide to break, separate and go out each on his own. That we would still have Christmas Eve dinner with traditional Irish fare that my mother would prepare. Egg Nog that would knock you on your butt with the first sip. Exchange gifts, and then meet again on Christmas Night for Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, real butter and pie.  This year it looks like that indeed will happen. With one execption. The man at the head of the table and his wife to the right won't be there this year,  next year or the year after that.  But with effort on all of our parts, my family can continue on and find joy celebrating Christmas with those who remain. Those who have a common memory of the two people who brought us all together and taught us to love one another.