I first met my husband’s grandparents when I was just 19 years old. As we departed their century-old farmhouse, Grandpa James approached a kitchen drawer, rummaged for a moment, and then placed something small and unremarkable into my palm.
“Travel safely,” he said, giving my hand a gentle pat, his warm blue eyes sparkling with the kind of charm that comes naturally to someone born on St. Patrick’s Day.
Looking down, I noticed a small rock with a hole that pierced it completely. I nodded, pretending to understand its significance, but at that moment, I was clueless.
Fast forward sixteen years. Two nurses assist me as I attempt to stand for the first time after giving birth to my daughter. I feel as fragile and unsteady as a newborn calf. One nurse starts tidying my bed when a hard object clinks onto the floor. She bends down to retrieve it.
“Is this yours?” she questions.
In her hand are four plain rocks threaded together with a ribbon. They appear worn and odd, maybe even a bit unsanitary.
Eagerly, I extend my hand, “Yes!” I exclaim. “That’s mine!”
She studies me, puzzled. I realize how busy she must be and decide against explaining their meaning, which would require more time than she has. So, I simply tuck the rocks away.
On that day when Grandpa James gifted me that first rock, my husband revealed that these stones symbolize an old Irish tradition meant to ensure safe travels. His family held this belief dearly. Since then, I can’t recall a single journey without one of those magical rocks by my side. Thus, I was determined that my daughter wouldn’t embark on her first significant adventure without at least one.
Before Nora was born, my father-in-law sent me four of these cherished stones, which I kept close during my hospital stay—through the waves of contractions, the prick of needles, the pushing, the sweat, the tears, and the overwhelming joy of meeting my beautiful girl for the first time, as if by magic.
Recently, my husband’s grandparents passed away just eight days apart, a poignant reminder of their deep connection, as they were also born eight days apart. They spent 73 years together, nurturing two sons, enduring the loss of one, and welcoming me into their family.
In the week following Grandpa James’s passing, Grandma Eleanor began to speak of the son they lost. She had never truly recovered from that heartache and never uttered his name. Eventually, she drifted into the often-comforting haze of dementia. I can hardly blame her.
I envision Grandma Eleanor on that eighth day, purposeful and intent, after years spent in the fog of her mind, slipping a small, nondescript rock into her pocket. Lying down, she reflects on the last remnants of magic that flowed through the rock, providing assurance that her final journey would be safe.
This article was originally published on Jan. 12, 2005.
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In summary, this heartfelt narrative captures the essence of family traditions, the significance of symbols passed down through generations, and the magic that accompanies life’s journeys, all while intertwining the themes of love, loss, and the enduring bond between family members.