his name was Ernest

I’ve been thinking a lot about my grandparents lately.

I remember my Nana’s 90th birthday party, when the extended family gathered at Uncle Paddy’s house that January.

How Nana’s silver-white hair shone, and she grinned as my cousin’s twins roamed the house. How my sisters laughed in the kitchen, helping dish out food and clean glasses. How Pop sat quietly in the dining room, a little overwhelmed by the conversation and bother.

Pop was in hospice by then, and that party was the last time he saw us all together. We gathered again at his bedside in the spring, to say goodbye. We held hands while he reached out for angels.

That November would have been Nana and Pop’s 60th wedding anniversary. We still thought of it that way. Nana received yellow roses, as she had throughout their courtship and marriage.

Heaven only knows where Pop found yellow roses in bombed-out London in 1941, but he was resourceful that way, patient and a little stubborn.

His name was Ernest. Hers was Bridget.

And I couldn’t be more proud to remember them today.

There are so many stories. I’ve written about them here on Remembrance Day, last year and the year before.

Doug Savage has a beautiful tribute to another Ernest.

Who do you remember today?


  • Nanna and pop have been in my heart and mind even more than usual as of late.
    I miss them, and I also know that they are alive and well inside each and everyone of us.

    I still miss their voices, stories, and laughter.

    yesterday was nanna and pop’s 70th wedding anniversary.

    that is badass.
    just saying. xo

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