Winter Wishes with Nana
How One Grandmother Shaped a Life of Tradition, Adventure, and Joy
Winter arrived right on schedule in 1957—just the way my grandmother liked it. Nana believed cold weather made the city honest. She bundled me up as if we were heading for the North Pole, though our adventure was just a half-hour subway ride from her Bay Ridge apartment in Brooklyn to Macy’s on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. But with Nana, even the simplest trips felt like expeditions.
For Nana, this day was a wish fulfilled. I was nine, a true New York boy, yet I had never seen the Thanksgiving Day Parade. My father wasn’t fond of crowds, but Nana refused to let that stop a tradition she believed every child should experience. She assured the family we’d be back in time for an early Thanksgiving dinner, issued a few instructions, and claimed the morning for just the two of us. Time together was her favorite gift.
Though probably in her sixties, I spent much of my childhood assuming all grandparents were at least ninety. Not Nana. She climbed four flights of stairs every day, still hoping someone might someday install an elevator. She moved with the steady spark of the Eveready Bunny—always in motion, always ready for the next memory she could create.
Looking back, I see how intentional she was—carefully shaping experiences she believed mattered, proud to guide me into a world she loved. Even then, I knew I was lucky. Not every child feels so fully seen and chosen.
As we headed toward the parade route, Nana detoured into what felt like a magical kingdom—Macy’s Department Store, proud sponsor of the festivities. Inside, I was swallowed by lights, color, and music. Santa’s elves hustled about, reminding us to return after the parade to welcome Santa and Mrs. Claus into their winter quarters. To my nine-year-old eyes, it was all perfectly real.
Outside, we joined the masses lining the streets. Nana had a knack for claiming the perfect spot—just enough space, just enough visibility, just enough magic. We weren’t only waiting for floats or marching bands. We were there for the balloons—the giants I had only ever seen in Sunday comics that I tried so hard to draw.
That year there were three: Mighty Mouse, Gorgeous Gobbler, and Spaceman. As a budding artist, seeing Mighty Mouse float above me—not sketched on paper but soaring in the sky—felt like a dream only Nana could have made possible.
Then the crowd shifted. Nana sensed it first. The noise softened, a hush moved forward like a wave, and then came the cheers—from both adults and children. She kept her eyes on me as Santa appeared, high above the crowd in his sleigh, waving as if he knew us personally.
In that moment, her wish was fulfilled. And for me, something clicked. I learned what every New York kid learned back then: Christmas didn’t begin when the calendar said so. It began the moment Santa reached Herald Square—like the ball dropping in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. It meant everything.
When Santa passed, we slipped back into our day as if nothing unusual had happened. On the subway headed back to 86th Street, I leaned into her warmth, tired in the best possible way. She bent down and whispered, Just wait until next year. It felt like a promise.
At home, the family was waiting—turkey on the table, dinner ready, questions ready, eager to hear every detail of our new tradition.
And Then… Christmas Break
True to her word, the next Christmas Break arrived with the same excitement. Nana packed fruit and sandwiches, bundled us even warmer, and led me back to the subway. But this time, our destination was completely new: Radio City Music Hall.
I had only heard whispers of its grandeur. The Christmas Spectacular with the 36 Rockettes was legendary, and somehow Nana decided it was time I experienced it.
Nana valued discipline. She always set high expectations for my behavior, especially on days like this. On the subway, she prepared me: there would be 5,000 people in line—stretching down the street—waiting for both the show and the movie afterward. (Ticketmaster hadn’t been invented yet.)
The barricades stretched endlessly. Thousands braved the bitter cold. Stepping into Radio City’s grand foyer left me speechless. Nicknamed the Showplace of the Nation and built in 1932, it was where I fell in love with Art Deco art and architecture—the stairways to four floors, the mirrors, the chrome and brass railings, the decorations, the music. The message was clear: when New York entertains, it does so with breathtaking generosity.
The show was spectacular. And afterward came Old Yeller, the timeless story of a dog who saves a boy’s life and becomes part of the family. But even more powerful was the realization that Nana had created something far bigger than a fun outing. She had planted a legacy—one that would ripple outward for decades.
Years later, reminiscing together, her smile carried all the joy of those early days. Traditions don’t just happen. They are intentional, purposeful, and—most of all—fun. That’s what she gave me.
Twenty-Five Years Later
Much later—sitting in our home in Ohio, in one of our last conversations—I thanked her properly. I told her how her high expectations shaped me into a better person, how her belief that I could go to college, succeed, and simply be a good human had carried me through life. We laughed, we cried.
Then I shared how her legacy continued through my children, grandchildren, and our many adventures and memories of New York City—the Thanksgiving Day Parade, Radio City, and beyond.
She had always been excited about my work as a youth leader. I told her about the groups of students I’d taken on Christmas-in-New-York trips—not just for the parade or the Rockettes, but for the Rockefeller Center tree, the lights, the food, the crowds—the culture. A culture that begins early, grows with experience, and continues through Winter Wishes for people of all ages.
Only then did I realize how many lives she had unknowingly touched.
Sixty-Eight Years of Legacy
Sixty-eight years later, Nana’s traditions and values continue to shape my life. Hundreds of teens and adults—and my own family—have traveled with us to experience New York. My unspoken goal has always been simple: that they fall in love with the city and its culture the way I did.
A postscript: This Thanksgiving in 2025, ten of our family members will return to New York City. We’ll watch the balloons inflate on Wednesday evening, wake up for the parade and the thousands joining us to welcome Santa, visit Radio City, enjoy favorite restaurants, ride the subway, walk and walk—and for a few days, reconnect with the memory of Nana.
This year, my personal artwork features Spider-Man (pictured below) —yes, we’ve come a long way from Mighty Mouse—but the heart of the tradition remains: embracing change while honoring what should never change.
Her Winter Wishes live on—carried forward in every laugh, every adventure, and every life she quietly touched.
