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Christmas traditions in my family were common when I was growing up.
My mom did Christmas baking every year with my brother Jordan, and still does to this day. My dad spends a ridiculous amount of time placing strands of tinsel on the tree to ensure proper dispersal on all sides.
We would watch the old favourites on TV: Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, Frosty the Snowman and How the Grinch Stole Christmas.
But above all, the most important tradition of all was spending Christmas together as a family, always at my mom and dad's house.
My grandfathers on both sides passed away in the 1980s, so both my grandmothers had special places in my heart.
My Grandma Marlene was tough and outspoken. My Grandma Norah was kind and demure.
I like to think that maybe I’m the best of both of them, but in reality, I don’t know if I could really hold a candle to either.
Over the years, they both remarried, but had second and third husbands shuffle off this mortal coil as well. This led to a tradition where my grandmas would both come to my mom and dad’s house every year on Dec. 25 and spend Christmas with us.
I have fond memories of my Grandma Norah putting her hands on her face to fawn over the decorated tree, or carefully kneading dough with her hands to make her signature shortbread cookies.
I have fond memories of my Grandma Marlene snapping at my cousins to get away from the buffet before all the food was ready. What a firecracker.
Eventually, my Grandma Marlene’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis meant she had to be put in assistive care, and couldn’t spend Christmas with us anymore. She eventually died in May 2016 after a long fight with the illness.
My Grandma Norah died in January of 2015, well into her 90s. She held on for one last Christmas season.
When Christmas 2015 rolled around, I wanted to do something that would begin a new Christmas tradition for my family, so I invited them all to make the trek to Barrie for the holiday.
I racked my brain about how I could make this year special, even if was in a bad way. It could be “The Christmas that Jessica burned the turkey,” even. As long as we weren’t thinking about it being “The first Christmas without any grandmas in attendance.”
Jordan got in a semi-serious accident that year in November where he broke his knee in a trampoline incident (I wish I were making this up). Therefore, despite my efforts, that Christmas became “The Christmas when we tried to manoeuvre a wheelchair through a small two-bedroom apartment.”
We watched Christmas movies. We drank egg nog. (Well, I didn’t. Controversial Christmas opinion: Egg nog is trash.)
And while the twinkling lights and the delicious aromas of Christmas will always remind me of these two amazing women who helped my parents raise me, as the years pass, it’s with feelings of admiration, love and gratefulness for having known them, rather than sadness.
Jessica Owen is a regional reporter for Village Media, whose work is featured regularly in OrilliaMatters.
