My daddy’s full name was J. Boyd Wright. The “J” stood for a forename, that according to my mother, he disliked (and therefore I will not divulge), so he went by J. Boyd. Mama and close friends usually called him Boyd. When officials decided to give names to the previously numbered county roads, the one on which our farm was located was designated Boyd Wright Road.

Mama died a few days before Daddy’s 84^thbirthday in September 1995. We were living in Brooklyn, New York at the time, but our daughter Rachel had been staying with my parents to help take care of Mama following the stroke she had suffered in July. Our sweet daughter decided to stay a while longer and assist Daddy in adjusting to being on his own for the first time in 60 years.

Sometime in November, I had this outlandish idea. Because my husband was pastoring an inner-city church, it would be difficult for us to get away at Christmas to visit family in North Carolina. So, wouldn’t it be great if Rachel could bring Daddy to New York on Amtrak? By some miracle, this escapade became reality and on December 14 our family drove to Penn Station in Manhattan to pick up Daddy and Rachel.

Never mind that there had been a foot of snow on the ground since the first of December. Or that maneuvering the escalators at this busiest passenger transportation hub in the Western Hemisphere can be daunting. Where there’s a will, there’s a way! And I am pretty sure I inherited my Daddy’s strong can-do nature.

It was almost midnight when the train squealed to a stop in the underground station. Rachel waved enthusiastically from the window nearest the exit. A minute later she stepped through the doorway, followed by Daddy who strode onto the arrival platform clutching his pillow and his dependable wooden cane (insurance for a weak knee) in his right hand. Beneath his forest green parka was a slightly loosened red paisley tie under a crisp white shirt collar. On his head, of course, was his customary gray felt fedora. Rather spiffy for a Southern Alamance chicken farmer!

“Mr. Wright, we are so glad you traveled with us. See you in a few weeks!” the conductor genially affirmed as he grasped Daddy’s empty left hand and shook it firmly.

“Yes, sir; thank you, sir,” replied the Southern gentleman.

On our drive back to our apartment located in a Brooklyn brownstone, we regaled Daddy with too much information: “Now we’re crossing the Brooklyn Bridge – that’s the Manhattan Bridge beside us. See that light in the harbor? That’s the Statue of Liberty. If you turn your head to the right, you can see the World Trade Centers.” We wanted him to take it all in; he seemed to take it all in stride.

“Sure are some tall buildings,” he eventually acknowledged.

Daddy’s usual bedtime was about 8 o’clock, so I was surprised that he wanted to stay up and reminisce about Mama. At two in the morning, I finally got him comfortabley tucked in on the sleeper sofa in the front room. A large bay window stretched across the wall facing the street – Bay Ridge Parkway – a major bus and car route in this section of Brooklyn.

A few hours later I heard Daddy stirring and hurried down the stairs to check on him. He was standing in front of the window, a perplexed expression on his face. “What are all these cars doing driving down Boyd Wright Road?” he questioned.

Waking up in a strange place can be confusing for anyone, especially after a tiring trip and a change in one’s normal sleep pattern. I reminded Daddy that he was visiting us in Brooklyn, assisted him to the bathroom and tucked him back in bed. I found his question amusing and wasn’t at all concerned. After all, before he had fallen asleep, we had spent almost two hours reminiscing about Mama and life on the farm and his memories were spot-on.

Daddy didn’t wake up again until almost eight o’clock. Before leaving for his college classes at St. John’s, our son Benjamin ran down to the deli on 4^thAvenue and brought home fresh bagels for breakfast. When Daddy asked, “Where’s my oatmeal?” I was thankful I always kept some on hand (for cookies) and prepared a bowl in the microwave. He ate the oatmeal and a bagel and appeared to enjoy both. He had never been a picky eater.

Where to start? There was so much to see and do, and I wanted Daddy to have the experience of his life. Though grimy piles of snow occupied every corner, the sidewalks were relatively clear. Emily (who was seven years old), Daddy and I bundled up and trekked down the street to the green-grocer for some fresh fruits and veggies. Exchanging his dressy fedora for a tan corduroy cap, Daddy pulled it snugly on his head underneath the ample hood of his parka.

As we walked out on the stoop, Daddy noticed the dolls in the bay window. Mother had made one for each member of our family, and at Christmas we dressed them as Mary, Joseph, angels, and shepherds and displayed them in the bay window along with twinkling lights.

“Didn’t Olive make those dolls? How did they get in the window?” he inquired.

I reminded him that mother had made them for us before we moved to New York.

“You moved to New York? Why did you move there?”

I shrugged off his reaction as a result of the change of scenery and sleep deprivation.

After lunch Randy came home from our church in Red Hook, an inner-city neighborhood located on a peninsula that juts into the Upper New York Bay. Emily, Amy, Rachel, Daddy, and I accompanied him back to the church to prepare for after-school girls’ club. Always a man of few words, my dad surveyed the surroundings – so different from those he knew – without comment…until the girls began streaming in, not even taking time to toss off backpacks and winter coats before boisterously gathering around our special guest. Many times in our classes, I had shared the lessons I had learned from this godly man. For little girls who rarely had fathers in the home, let alone grandfathers, this was a grand occasion. You would have thought he was Santa Claus, the way they smothered him with hugs and kisses; and J. Boyd kindly welcomed and returned their expressions of affection.

As the days before Christmas have a tendency to do – at least for those no longer young – the time flew by, and soon it was Christmas Eve. After the first few days of Daddy’s visit, we had decided to replace sightseeing excursions with quiet days at home, enjoying each other’s company. With a little prodding, Daddy regaled us with stories about growing up in the 1920s and 30’s. As we traveled through his later years, it was easy to recognize that his favorite topic was Mama. It was interesting that he could remember her scrumptious coconut pies, but not what he had eaten earlier that day.

That evening we attended the candlelight communion service at our church. Afterwards, we kept our Brooklyn tradition of Christmas Eve dinner at Junior’s Restaurant, a renowned downtown diner that not only serves fabulous food but also displays their delectable desserts on sparkling glass shelves in the sidewalk-facing windows. Daddy admired the displays and with a twinkle in his eye asked if their pies were as good as Mama’s.

Christmas day was celebrated at a delightfully leisurely pace – opening presents, eating when we were hungry, afternoon naps, but most of all just enjoying being together. I started to dread the departure of two of my favorite people; just a few more days and Rachel and Daddy would be boarding the train and heading back to North Carolina.

Christmas night we received an unexpected long-distance (remember those?) phone call from one of Mama and Daddy’s dearest friends – Edna Holshouser. Her husband Tommy became the pastor of our family’s church in the ‘60’s and our families became close friends. Rev. Holshouser had passed away and Edna was now living in Virginia, but she and her daughter Cathy were traveling to New York in two days. Could we meet them in Manhattan and spend the day together? When I told her that Daddy was with us, her reaction was a combination of shock and elation. I can still see Edna stepping off the subway in Times Square and practically jumping into Daddy’s outstretched arms. (Seven years later, Edna would hire a driver to bring her to Burlington from Roanoke during a snowstorm so she could officiate and sing Coronation Day at Daddy’s funeral.)

On Friday, we drove across the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge to Bedminster, New Jersey, to visit my first cousin (one of Daddy’s favorite nieces) – Betty and her husband Bob. Daddy carried on a coherent conversation about Mama and Aunt Dorothy (Betty’s mother); but when Betty asked him what sites he had seen in New York, he looked at me to provide an answer.

Before we knew it, the day of departure had come. For the train ride home, Daddy wore one of his gifts – a sweatshirt emblazoned with “Brooklyn” across the chest. Of course, the grey fedora topped his head. As we kissed and hugged and sighed our goodbyes at Penn Station, I wondered how many more Christmases we would have with Daddy.

I didn’t know at the time that Daddy’s confusion and short-term memory loss were the first signs that he was about to confront an unwelcome malady. We had no way of knowing that in just three years our family would embark on our own journey – to become Daddy’s caregivers – as dementia took away his ability to care for himself. After that most memorable Christmas in New York, God blessed us with eight more Christmases with Daddy. We treasured every one of them.

I hope you will have opportunities to make memories with your loved ones this Christmas – and treasure them in your heart.