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A house of shelter or rest for pilgrims, strangers, etc.
If you look up hospice in the dictionary, that's the first definition you'll find.
I learned yesterday that my grandmother is now under hospice care. She's traveled slowly down the road of Alzheimer's for about seven or eight years.
She wouldn't know me if she saw me today. Because she lives in Maine (and because she can no longer hold a phone conversation), it's been a long time since I've seen or talked to her.
This is my sweet Nana. I miss her terribly. I've missed her for a while, so I was a bit shocked by the fresh wave of grief when the word "hospice" came from my dad's mouth.
If anyone deserves a house of shelter or rest, it's you Nan. You've always been the picture of strength, determination, patience, tough love, and kindness. Witty. Sharp as a tack. Quick to speak your mind. A big heart and a big laugh. Hands always moving, always warm, with slight callouses from a lifetime of caring for a hospital full of patients, four children, and ten grandchildren.
At Thanksgiving especially, I think of you. I wear the cross necklace you gave me on Thanksgiving when I was in fourth grade. I remember the holidays in Boston, all of us packed into two rooms while the rest of the house sat empty. Jumping on your couches, playing dress-up in your closet, the smell of some form of Italian food mixed with cigar smoke hanging in the air.
I'm grateful for you. In every way.
I never planned to change my last name. I thought it was an outdated and chauvinistic tradition, and I liked the name I already had—the one I was born with. I love the family history it holds. In a weird way, I even love that it's difficult to pronounce. I was never one of the girls doodling "Mrs. So-and-so" in my notebooks*.
But then I got married. And I traded it in.
"Pasquariello" became "McGinnis." And to be honest, at first I felt like an impostor—or worse, a traitor.
It was a tough decision. Really tough. I cried about it, and not just a single tear but a wet-faced, steering-wheel-gripping pity party.
How come women never talk about that? I know I'm not the only one in history to have a hard time letting go of her last name. But so many women get excited about a new name, that I almost felt guilty for having the opposite emotion.
But I ended up doing it anyway. Why?
The short answer is that I decided it was the right decision for us—that tiny little word that makes such a big difference—graduating from me to us.
The long answer is... more complicated. Several conversations went around in circles. I discovered his reasons for wanting me to take his last name weren't chauvinistic—they were actually rather sweet, which only pissed me off. Because my reasons were equally justified.
It was a complete stalemate. There was no truly feasible compromise, since hyphenating would mean a 20-letter last name. My best friend Laura suggested getting a maiden name tattoo, which I actually considered before deciding against it.
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| too long for a tat |
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| a bit unwieldy |
I did a little soul-searching, and by that I mean talking to a few friends (if you're reading, thanks for listening), staying up late one night listening to Adele, drinking Pinot Noir, and writing my name out in fine point Sharpie on notebook paper in every possible combination. I'd look at it every few days, think about it, write it down, think about it some more.
On the blistering hot day we found ourselves at the Athens-Clarke County Courthouse filing paperwork, there was a blank line that demanded FUTURE LAST NAME. I wrote "McGinnis" on the form, and handed it to my future husband. He set about filling in his portion, and then he saw it. He stopped. He smiled.
Pointing to the line, he asked, "What's that?"
I didn't answer.
"I'd hoped we'd get there, but I didn't think we were there yet."
And that's how it happened. It might've been a decision I made for us, but it was a conclusion I had to reach on my own.
*Disclaimer: I once owned a shirt that said "Mrs. Clooney" but I don't think that counts.
In Massachusetts, on a cold winter day in 1955, Barbara Ann Bernard married Ralph Angelo Pasquariello.
Theirs is the greatest love story never told—but of course, as their granddaughter, I'm a bit biased. They would be celebrating 57 years of marriage next month if Poppie was alive. Nana is still with us, but these days she doesn't know one month from the next. I miss them both.
I was searching for wedding photos from everyone in my family and Ryan's to use for our wedding, and got these from a cousin.
I'd remembered Nana telling me a long time ago that they had a "snowball wedding," where all of her bridesmaids wore white, but had never seen most of these photos before. I could look at these all day... so much to love.
Gingerbread creations have become something of a tradition in the Pasquariello household around the holidays.
It started a few years ago with your traditional gingerbread house. Then we progressed to a gingerbread manger (including an edible baby Jesus).
This year, we created a gingerbread desert scene, complete with three wise men, four pyramids, and a crash-landed UFO. I thought it was funny... but I've also been told that I have a warped sense of humor.
Here's what it looked like in the beginning, and then about two weeks later. Demolition has never been so delicious.
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| BEFORE |
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| AFTER |
