When my son makes a birthday card, he doesn’t just write “Happy Birthday.” He writes “Happy” over and over again—the same number of times as the birthday person’s number of years. Last year I got “Happy” on my birthday card 42 times.
He picked up this habit from his Great Granddad.
My husband declared the first Sunday of every month Letter-Writing Day so our three sons would grow up knowing how to write letters—the pen-on-paper, stamp-on-envelope, delivered-by-postal-carrier kind. Our sons write to anyone they choose. Often, the letter is for the person who wrote back last time.
Great Granddad, my husband’s paternal grandfather, was a favorite choice. He wrote back with “original art” on the stationery: a smiling head drawn at the bottom, next to “Love, Great Granddad.” The head, representing himself, had a single curly hair on top, Charlie Brown–like. He wrote in print, not cursive, and put a distinctive curl at the beginning or ending of some letter strokes. The downward mini-flourish at the end of his ‘s’ was most memorable to me.
Great Granddad’s letters often included a joke. (Why did the golfer throw away his socks? Because he had a hole in one.) My sons sometimes replied with jokes of their own. Even without the jokes, his sense of humor came through. When telling us of an accident in the house which resulted in his falling, he wrote that his daughter, who lives with him, “suggested that I draw one of my original art pictures to show me flying through the room, but my limited ability cannot do justice to the situation.”
Great Granddad also told stories of his growing-up days. In one letter, he told of the farm where he grew up:
Our farm of about 50 acres included 10 acres of woodland. We had 1 cow, 1 heifer, 1 or 2 horses, 4 pigs, + at least a hundred chickens. My mother had to milk the cow twice a day—in the morning and in the evening. My father was a school teacher. We had coal oil lanterns for light until we got electricity, when I was 3 or 4 or 5 years old. We had a coal stove in the kitchen which met our cooking and heating needs. I will try to tell you more about my childhood in future letters.
When Great Granddad was a child, they grew strawberries on that farm. Now it is a Christmas-tree farm. Though no Sharman has lived there for many years, the subsequent owners kept “The Sharman Homestead” painted on the barn wall.
A commissioned painting of the barn hangs in our dinette. It is to be handed down to the oldest son, generation after generation.
Our sons also learned about Great Granddad’s day-to-day life:
On Sundays we go to church about two miles from here. It is the church in which I was baptized when a baby and confirmed when I was 15 . . . About 1 day a week we visit friends and go to places in the Amish country; then we return to their house and play Rummeyo.
Sometimes his letters contrasted his childhood with theirs:
You mentioned that you went skiing at Black Canyon. When I was a boy I had skis which had straps to hold your feet onto the skis. Sometimes I fell painfully. Today you have better ways to hold the feet.
There’s his dry humor again.
My sons’ relationships (and joke exchanges) with older generations make me happy. Letter-writing day makes me happy. Growing older makes me happy. And, according to my son’s birthday cards, the older I get, the happier I am.
For The High Calling community theme: Live Happy. Visit The High Calling for more posts on what makes you happy—or what keeps you from happiness.