From my earliest recollections, (our branch of the family tree through my grandparents Michael and Vera Zdepski, and Michael and I as the children of Stephen and Lauren) I knew we were part of a large, extended family that truly enjoyed being together.
My very first Zdepski Christmas party memory was from age 2 or 3, in the later 1970’s. We gathered at Aunt Ann’s farmhouse, and all squeezed inside. The floor was a regular place to find a seat in the living room, as every chair was taken by the older adults. I often sat snuggled in my mom’s lap, or perhaps on my Pop Pop or Grandma Honey’s lap, and played on the floor. I wasn’t old enough to go play in the upstairs bedroom, yet. My older cousins might be found playing pretend or Barbies upstairs, or sitting on the stairwell eating dinner. The smell of coffee and pierogis wafted through the entire home, and there was a particularly tempting bowl of pastel, square after-dinner mints within my sight. The sound of conversations between my parents, grandparents, older cousins, great aunts and uncles, my great-grandmother Grammy created a background hum that brought comfort, a sense of peace and security. As I played on the floor, I looked up at Grammy, who was sitting in her comfy chair. An afghan blanket was draped across her legs. I had no concept of how old she was, or that she might not be able to sit on the floor with me, too. I simply asked her if she would like to play with me. I will never forget the loving twinkle in her eyes when she chuckled that she couldn’t. It was the same twinkle I often saw in Pop Pop’s eyes, and also in Uncle John, Uncle Steve, Uncle Walter, Uncle Stanley, Aunt Ann, and Aunt Helen’s eyes.
Also sparkling in the living room stood Aunt Ann’s Christmas tree. The spiral glass ornaments still stand out in my memory. Aunt Ann’s bear hugs and incredible generosity giving her nieces and nephews Christmas gifts, also stand out in my mind. If it was time to fill our dinner plate, we formed a long, winding line through Aunt Ann’s house. From the living room, past the front door, through the dining room, and into the kitchen and around the table. When you got to the kitchen, that’s when the line got more interesting. I think Aunt Ann must have had a refrigerator magnet for just about every occasion, with pretend cookie and vegetable magnets, and eventually stocking faces that were so funny to see stitched into humorous expressions. The magnets filled the entire front of that refrigerator, and all of us young cousins liked moving them around. Then, came the pierogis. Generously filled, rich with flavor, and all hand made. If pierogis could speak, these would say, “Будь ласка, з’їж мене! Я смачний.” (If Grammy and Pop could learn English, I can try to learn Ukrainian!)
As the years rolled by, I ate my plate of pierogis sitting on the stairs with my cousins. The night before our family Christmas gatherings or our summer reunions, I would have such a hard time falling asleep because I was so excited to see my cousins the next day. Without having any older first cousins, or a sister, my earliest times playing and talking with Heather, Holly, and Wendi were truly special.
Decades have gone by, and I often ponder what Grammy’s early years were like. I think she was so brave to start her young adult life across the Atlantic, learning a new language, and raising such a large family through the Great Depression, and sending her sons off to war. Her joy was present in her eyes, even in her 80’s. She had a strong work ethic, and was no stranger to faith. She always welcomed her family, even the smallest members sitting on the floor by her feet.
I was born a few years after Pop died, but I see some of him and Grammy in each of us. I really wish I had inherited some of Grammy’s gardening skills… We’ve been really blessed to have their example, and to have each other. Are we all honoring our connections the way they would expect? Do we tend our relationships like Grammy tended her flowers?
Lovingly submitted by Laura Kristin (Zdepski) Sands
wife to Stephen, and mother of Micaela
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