Death Before Dishonor

Recently I had reason to engage in a conversation with my eldest child about family. We spoke like drunk Irishmen about the honor of a blood bond. We agreed that to leave any man behind was a treason worthy of gnashing teeth and grinding jaws.... Crushed bones to make some bread.
About the same time we were having this conversation I was in the process of finding the Sacred Family Christmas Recipes. I found my mom's handwriting for both the Danish Coffee Cake and the Crab Mold (horrible name, delightful dish) and my dad's handwriting for some salads and edits on mom's recipes. Just seeing their handwriting made me remember a whole bunch of different smells and colors of kitchens and aprons my mom wore and Old Spice cologne and a gigantic cat named Cinnamon.
It was the Camelot days of 1960s middle-class America and we were just coming into our Harvest Gold and Avocado Green period of selfish consumerism. We used Oleo that came in sticks and was kept in the icebox.
The family (on both sides) was huge then. The numbers were always higher in the Catholic German/Irish families, so when I say there were LOTS of people in the families, I mean, like. Tons. Whole trucks fulla them.
There were marriages, baptisms, First Communions, Confirmations, funerals, family reunions, gigs in nearby towns and a great ongoing list of reasons for us to meet up and eat and drink and smoke and spray paint the under side of highway bridges together.
We all grew up and the family grew larger, but the gatherings grew much less frequent. We all kept a thumb on each others' pulses by way of talking to our moms and siblings. It was the old days - before we had facebook. We had to walk uphill to school (both ways) with hot rocks in our pockets to keep warm and we paid by the minute for the Internet connection that downloaded slower than molasses in January. When we wanted to find somebody or tell somebody something, we actually had to find them or find a telephone (that was most likely connected to the wall by way of a coiled cord.)
It was a different time back then.
And.... CUE: Grandmother, stage right.
Yep. I've become my grandmother. I think about things that are not original thoughts. I bemoan the changes that have brought us here. I talk about the "Old Days" in ways that romanticize the hardships and fortitude required to have survived. Yep.
It's awesome.
That's all it is.
I AM your grandmother.
To that end: I sincerely hope you've cared enough about your penmanship to make it worth finding for your grandchild or their grandchild. It's kind of crazy the things that survive holocausts.
Apparently your handwriting may well be one of them.
Sweetness.