My son is kind of big on tradition. That warms my heart really. Traditions build memories. They seem to build some pretty strong family bonds as well.

One such tradition use to lead my son and me to the I-95 southbound ramp every Thanksgiving. His mom always seemed to have to work on that holiday. So the two of us spending Thanksgiving with our Florida family became “our” tradition. That one has changed quite a bit lately. Some of the Florida family is no longer with us. Others there have chosen different paths and traditions. And my son has his own family now and work that keeps him from that regular Thanksgiving gathering. My new tradition next year will be to spend Thanksgiving with my son and his bunch.

This is about old traditions. And it's about new ones. The old ones have permanent homes in our hearts. They may conjure up a tear or two in our old age. But just as easily as the tears for the old flow, so too does the joy for the new ones.

I have had my own tradition for quite some time. It began sometime in the mid-70s, I guess. My sister and I were shopping with my mom one Christmas Eve. Actually, as was pretty much the norm with Mama every year, her shopping pretty much began on Christmas Eve that year, too. That Christmas Eve, we were rushing around downtown Jacksonville, going from store to store, racking up big-time purchases on Daddy's credit card. Our shopping partner was panic. Mama had me going to the third floor of May Cohen's and my sister going to the first floor. I'm not sure where Mama was. My guess is, she was having a nervous breakdown in the ladies room on the second floor. But somehow we all met up on some upper floor of May Cohen's with only ten minutes of shopping time left. We took the elevator to the main floor of the department store, wondering the whole ride down what we could buy next – and where. When we reached the main floor, we were greeted by a really happy young man, wearing a Santa hat. He was smiling and laughing and encouraging panicked shoppers like my mom, sister and me to come join him for a little eggnog. May Cohen's had set up two tables at the base of the down escalator. Both tables had free eggnog. My favorite table boasted the “nog.” Mama chose the non-nog table. Still, I cannot recall ever seeing such a relieved look on Mama's face. I was relieved, too. So was my sister. Our frantic journey to buy the perfect Christmas for everyone had suddenly ended. The store was closing. There was nothing at all we could do but accept the happy young Santa's free beverages. And relax just a bit.

Almost every Christmas Eve after that one, I have tried to duplicate the best parts of that day I spent with Mama and my sister. I always save until Christmas Eve at least a few key gifts to buy. Downtown Chapel Hill, NC used to be the perfect place for last minute shopping. All the students at the University had long since left town. It was just me, a few locals, a Tar Heel memorabilia shop or two, a florist, a Hallmark shop and Spanky's restaurant and bar on the corner of Franklin and Columbia. Spankys' bartender became my new young excited May Cohens' eggnog Santa. There, alone and the way I wanted things, I would belly up to the bar, place my purchases on the stool next to me, order a bourbon and Sprite, toast the Holidays with the bartender, and relax just a bit.

Even after my son was born, I continued my May Cohen's/Spanky's tradition. It was my favorite hour or two of the year. No work, no shopping, no spending. No worries at all. That became “my time.”

A few years after my son was born, I kind of forced my tradition on him. The poor young guy didn't even like Spanky's when I started taking him there with me on Christmas Eve. And he was too young to drink the “nog” with me. But he went along anyway. We experimented with different places on different Christmas Eves. Eventually he came to recognize the importance of this tradition. And eventually, he came of age and into the appreciation of Christmas Eve toasts.

Since our first trip to Spanky's together so many years ago, I don't think we've missed sharing Christmas Eve lunch. Last year, he worked. I met him during his lunch hour. We went for pizza at a place near his job site. It probably caused him to work late on Christmas Eve. But the kid kept the tradition going.

This Christmas Eve, my son did something a bit different. That incredible man had a date on Christmas Eve. He took his mother-in-law to a Carolina Panthers' NFL game so she could see in person the first quarterback she has truly loved since Joe Montana retired. Amazing. My son and his mother-in-law. They are both amazing.

I was at my son's home the day before Christmas Eve this year. I never mentioned to him the Christmas Eve tradition and the NFL conflict this year. I was too amazed to do so. But a few days ago, my son called me. He asked me to try and be at his workplace around lunchtime the day before Christmas Eve, so that we could continue our tradition – a day early.

And I was there.

Look, I hope all who read this will get at least something from it. The truth of the matter is, this is a message to my dear child.

You graciously shared my tradition with me all these years. Over time, it kind of morphed into “our” tradition. Dear boy, you have a wife and boys and girls of your own now. You have new traditions of your own to build and develop. Allow me a new tradition as well, okay? To sit back at Christmas and smile at the wonder of my child and his family and their new traditions together. Please don't deprive your old man of that pleasure. Okay, son?

I assure you, I will still sneak away to a May Cohen's or a Spanky's in whatever town I find myself to maintain my tradition. And whether or not you are with me, I will surely raise my glass and toast our time together.

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