Last night, while most of us were sleeping, Yvonne Griswold's light blinked out. That momentous occurrence has shaken my family this morning. Although the event itself was entirely predictable, expected, and a very long time in coming.

Yvonne was born in 1908, before the Titanic took to the sea, before Arch Duke Franz Ferdinand's assassination launched the great war, and before electricity was common in the American home. Wyatt Earp and Mark Twain were still alive and kicking when Yvonne came into the world. Radio and movies were both true rarities during her early years. Yet she lived to see astronauts walk on the moon, Christiaan Barnard successfully transplant the first heart, and inexpensive intercontinental travel become a reality.

My wife's grandmother saw nearly the entire sweep of the 20^th Century roll by before her eyes. She noticed quite a lot of that activity, too. She had stories to tell, and she told them well.

She was in her 90s the last time she visited us. Gigi, as we called her (the nick-name stood for Great Grandma) was a world traveler. She'd been all over the U.S., traveled Europe, and even strayed as far as New Zealand on her jaunts about the planet. A side-trip from her home in Connecticut to ours in Florida was nothing but a hop, skip, and a jump for her.

We were sitting at the table after dinner one night when I asked if anyone wanted ice cream. There were the usual complaints from the adults gathered together about waistlines, cholesterol, sugar, and such – and then the question made it's way to Gigi. “Never say no to ice cream,” she said with a smirk.

The lesson was a good one. It was hard earned and well taken. Her point was simple - embrace the fleeting joys of life. When you're gathered with loved ones you rarely see, sharing time, and smiles, and memories – don't waste the opportunity by worrying about long-term issues that have little place in the moment. Have some ice cream. Share your life with your friends and family. Live.

Yvonne Griswold certainly did live. For 102 years she wrung the last bit of juice out of this life, before moving on to whatever comes next.

On the night after the ice cream incident I popped a DVD in the player that I'd found at WalMart. How this particular title got in their collection I'll never guess. But I sat the family down to watch Buster Keaton's “The General,” without much commentary.

My daughters were small then. No doubt they thought the movie was a bit odd, since the frame of the film was square, not rectangular as is the custom today – and it was black and white to boot. Even stranger was the fact that it is a silent movie. Not one word of dialogue is uttered throughout the entire feature.

Gigi had no questions, however. She sat upright on the edge of the couch, absolutely enthralled. It was obvious that she was in her tenth decade of life, stooped, wrinkled, and suffering all the maladies of age that come with putting so many miles on the frame of any machine, whether biological or mechanical. But her smile and the twinkle in her eye betrayed the subtle charms of the 18 year old girl she was when The General was a new release – as new and exciting as the cinema that was showing the film.

 Gigi was in her element. Her tired old ears didn't miss a word, because there weren't any to miss. Her faded sight was still sharp enough to take in the images of Buster riding the rails, taking a beating, and rising up from mishap after mishap, as deadpan and able as ever.

She laughed out loud. Truly, deeply, and with real joy.

Yvonne Griswold died last night. I will miss her forever. But I will forever remember the simple lessons I learned from an old woman who loved my wife so much. Never say no to ice cream, and be sure to take the time to enjoy the wonders of your lifetime – even if you encounter them in the oddest places, many years after you thought they were long gone – forever.

Good night, Gigi. Good night, and God bless you.