OK, listen up my sweet grandkids, and I’ll tell you a tale about the summer after 3rd grade.

My Mom and Granda were out of the house for some reason and I had an hour or two to waste.  There was always something to do, but I decided to play in my Granda’s bedroom. You will notice I use the word Granda instead of Grandad or Grandfather, and that is because my Mom’s family came to the USA from England after WW1, and that is the British version of what I called my Mom’s dad.

His bedroom was not a big room, but it had lots of things to look at and explore.  Some of those wonders were not age appropriate, and none of my business to explore.  But, my Granda loved me so very much and if I really wanted something (like comic books or a BB gun), he would consider the request.  So, in my younger version brain, I didn’t even consider that I was about to get in big trouble.

Suddenly, I really had a brilliant idea!  Of the many treasures in his room, there was a magnificent pinto pony rug. As I can recall, it was lighter colored with caramel colored spots.  I knew he enjoyed having that rug next to his bed.  My idea — I would make it even more beautiful.  I would give the spots a haircut! And so I got some scissors and began trimming the hairs off one of the spots.  I worked carefully for maybe half an hour, and then stood back to examine my handy work.

I began to have doubts.  This was not what I had expected.

My Mom came home and tracked me down.  At the door, she wanted to know what I was doing. I mumbled something about making the rug more beautiful.  She told me I was going to have to tell my Granda that I was extremely sorry.  The full force of what I had done came crashing down on me.

I WASN’T MAKING IT BEAUTIFUL.  I WOULD MAKE MY GRANDA SAD AND ANGRY.  HE WOULD BE SO UNHAPPY WITH ME (AS WELL AS MY MOM).  I HAD RUINED A VALUED AND HANDSOME RUG.  I WAS NOT BRILLIANT.  I WAS ASHAMED AND I WOULD HAVE TO SAY I WAS SORRY.

The truth was (and still is), that it is very difficult for me to say I am sorry.  It makes me feel stupid and so very little.  Even when SORRY is what my whole body feels – from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.  It makes me cry just thinking about it.

This is the remarkable part of this tale.  My Granda came home; he did not show anger or say anything about the pinto pony rug. He waited for me to face up.  He was normal and rested in his room.  It took me several hours of agony and thinking and being in my room, before I could gather the courage to come to the door of his bedroom.  Then, very quickly, I squeaked I was sorry.

His words to me were simple, “Don’t do it again. Think first.”

My first point:  BEING sorry is very important when you have made a bad choice.  And, SAYING sorry is the next step, even though it may be hard.

My second point:  Being creative and imaginative is great, but being impulsive and not considering others can hurt you and those you love.  Think things through before you do.

My third point:  Be grateful for the people in your life who love you, know your mistakes are not who you are, and tell it to you straight when you’ve made a bad choice.

My sweet kiddoes, I love you oodles…   xoxo gramg

If you had known me when I was a little kid, I’m sure you would not have liked me. That’s because I was a jerk. Jerk is a bit of an old-fashioned word, but that’s ok, because I’m old now, so I can use old words. But what does jerk mean? Here’s a dictionary definition:

The definition has some big words in it. It says I was a “contemptibly obnoxious” person. If you are contemptible, that means people have contempt for you. In other words, they really, seriously don’t like you. The simplest definition of obnoxious is “extremely unpleasant”. So, that’s why I say I was a jerk when I was a kid. Most people, especially older kids, teenagers, and adults, did not like me at all. They didn’t like me because I believed that being loud, argumentative, demanding, and generally not nice was sort of like my super power. I thought I should always have my way and if I did not, I would make the situation extremely unpleasant for those around me. It’s no wonder that I was a target for bullies. I was a sort of bully myself.

I was a very unhappy person and I didn’t understand why. People did not like me. Nobody would do anything for me. Nobody invited me to parties or went to the movies with me. Nobody wanted me on a sports team.

So, I bet you are probably thinking that you wouldn’t like me.

Well, maybe you would now, because during the time I was in junior high school, I slowly discovered a great secret. It’s not really a secret. Good parents tell children about it all the time. But it was a secret to me before I discovered it.

What is the secret? It’s so simple you might laugh. I think of it as two lists. One list has things which make my life happy. The other list has things which cause me trouble, make people dislike me, and keep me unhappy.

It took time for me to realize that I was happier and things went my way more often when I began to use the GOOD stuff rather than the NOT SO GOOD stuff. I found that people began liking me. I didn’t feel so angry all the time. I also got more of the things I wanted because I was being nice and people wanted to be nice back to me.

Don’t get me wrong. I can still be a jerk sometimes. But now, instead of thinking that’s the way to get things, I feel embarrassed when I am a jerk. I don’t like the feeling I get when I see people looking at me and thinking, “What a JERK!”

I’d much rather be a gentleman. Maybe I still have time to become a gentleman. I got a late start. It’s best to start using The GOOD Stuff early, so you don’t get left behind with the jerks who haven’t figured it out yet.

That’s how a man can live a happy life.

I have been thinking about what my grandchildren might want to know about me.  They live hours away from me and we don’t spend many days of the year face to face.  (I do enjoy the days that we are able to touch, hug, and talk in the same space!!)

I want to talk about my first experiences with COMPASSION.  When I was a little girl, living in the Village of Jerome in the suburbs of Springfield, Illinois, my mom shared her love by helping neighbors in small ways.  She was a stay-at-home mom and took care of me, my dad, and my grandad.  Sometimes neighbors needed a little help with household chores, like ironing special linens or gardening tips, or just a person to converse with.  Being a gentle and kind soul, she would take me with her when she would visit or drop off her help tasks.

A hop, skip, and a jump across the road lived a family that had only one son, a remarkable person whose name was (let’s say) Michael, but we always called him Buddy.  He was a teenager when I was 4 or 5.  He had been stricken with cerebral palsy and was confined to a wheel chair.  He was unable to walk, his speech was slow and halting, but he was able to use a typewriter to do his work of stock market trading.  His mind was sharp, he loved to read, and those skills contributed to his life as he became an adult.

The best part of this story:  Buddy really became my buddy.  While his mom and my mom would be busy being friends, his wheel chair would be placed in the back yard which was the most special back yard I can remember.  It was filled with clover.  We would have the most wonderful conversations.  He was a teenager, and he talked to me as if I could understand anything.  He was a terrific listener; who knows what I told him?  Our conversations took some effort, his speech was slow and affected by his handicap, and I had to learn to be a good listener.  I had to get out of my little self and understand his efforts to communicate with me.  I learned to value his whole person, see past his disability, and value myself in the process.  I think that is COMPASSION.

And, as your gramg and a teacher these many years, this was a good thing to learn. I want you to learn it too!!   xo gg