I wrote this awhile ago, and I can't think of anything new to write right now, so here it is....

A lot can happen in 80 years. Human ingenuity and technology changes the world every month, and things previously impossible are now not only possible, but commonplace. I can sit here in my apartment in Japan, type this letter without using correction fluid, and know that it will reach its destination in Canada in a flash, simply by pushing a button. I take this for granted, and I will be upset if it happens in seconds instead of microseconds. I consider it a chore to sit down with pen and paper, and actually write a letter or card; applying ink to stationery isn't efficient anymore. In fact, I avoid the surface mail system as much as possible, because the electronic style has ruined me for letter-writing. Life is fast, and time is precious - no time for the personal touch.

Every so often, I receive a letter in the mail - the surface mail. The envelope has a stamp on it, and there is a sticker with a nice sunset or beach scene on it, bearing the return address of the sender. Inside are folded pages; pages that I can hold in my hand and read. The pages tell me about the life of the sender, and of the lives of those the sender loves and cares about. The sentences are not the usual one or two line incomplete info-packets that I see on my computer screen every day - there are no cute abbreviations or ridiculous acronyms. The letters contain long, complete, patient sentences, and they tell me about my family. More importantly, they tell me that the sender cares enough about the family (including myself), to put forth what I consider to be extra work, to keep us all informed and together, despite the thousands of miles between us.

The sender is my grandmother, and I thank her for the personal touch.

A lot can happen in 80 years. Every one of us will see births, deaths, marriages, divorces, victories and failures - and we will usually see all of them in our own families. It's difficult to see this flow of up and down, and believe everything will be better tomorrow. It's even more difficult to somehow know this is the case. The trick is to keep everything in perspective, and it's a tough trick when we're inside it. When someone throws a rock off a cliff onto your head, and you have to get stitches, it's important to have someone around to tell you that it was only three stitches, and you're still walking around. In spite of the Looney Tunes / Acme nature of the accident, it really was just an accident, and those kinds of things happen every day, and we should accept this and go back to summer camp the next day. "This too shall pass" is one of the most important lessons we need, and that bit of advice about a small cut has grown into a general attitude about negative events in my life. It's important to note here that even though the lesson was about toughing it out and making it to the next day, it didn't preclude holding a small hand before the stitches, nor did it discount the curative properties of a hard candy or two after. It's about alternately propping up and stepping back, and knowing the perfect time for each.

The giver of advice and humbugs is my grandmother, and I thank her for helping us keep it all in perspective.

A lot can happen in 80 years. Three squares a day for that many years is over 87,000 meals - an awful lot to see to. Now consider that for a large portion of those years, there are 5 others to fill up, and on special days throughout each of those years, there are upwards of 3 times that many mouths. Call MIT to figure out the math - all I know is that it's a lot of food - "enough to sink a battleship", one might say. Perfect turkey, lumpless gravy, Yorkshire pudding, fruit and marshmallows in suspended animation in jello…and (shiver) turnip. (I'm really very sorry, but I still hate turnip. I will still wash it down with sparkling white grape juice, and I may even still pretend the juice is wine, and wish I could sit at the big table, just for old times' sake.). I always looked forward to special occasions, and the trip into Blenheim for those dinners are inextricably linked to them. It's nearly impossible to find turkey on this side of the world, and the sensory memories of those meals keep me going when I'm eating rice on Boxing Day.

I have yet to find pickles that have achieved that particular shade of turquoise. I can't make an egg salad sandwich that tastes any better than one served on a paper towel with a big glass of milk. I swear, the only place I have ever seen Winnie the Pooh cereal is on the top shelf in the kitchen on Nichol's Drive. And, I've become aware that most of the world is stuck on this 'soft-boiled' description, for what is clearly and logically a dish called 'dip-in' eggs.

I have worked as a cook, and people have given me real money to prepare food for many mouths. I have baked pies, cakes, bread and cookies, but none of them ever seem to be quite right. Maybe the trick for the cookies is to keep them at a ten year old's eye level in wax-papered tins beside the utility tub - I don't know. Maybe the secret behind the bread is real butter and Velveeta - hard to say. All I know is that whether it is Christmas Day or Wednesday, the food is always the best around, and would make the authors of the Canada Food Guide very happy.

The cook is my grandmother, and I thank her for feeding us.

A lot can happen in 80 years. Many many children will come into the world in that time, and on the aforementioned special occasions, most of them will gather together under one roof and become bored very very quickly. A bored child tends to run, yell, and knock things over, and three or more of this type of creature can reduce a house to splinters in no time at all. The natural reaction in this situation is to shout and restore order - sit the bored child down in one place, and tell him/her not to move or make a sound, thus ensuring a doubly bored, and a very unhappy child. A more considered approach might be to designate an area for yelling, running, and knocking things over - an area removed from those who no longer have an interest in those things, and an area in which it is difficult to do much damage…say, a garage. In this child-proofed bunker of silliness, the herd of shouting and running small people may feel perfectly free to ride tricycles, kick balls around, and shout ridiculous things at the tops of their lungs, all without recrimination or restriction. They will form complicated alliances and invent astounding games, both of which will be the most important things in the world, until it's time to eat. They will discuss the probable contents of the boxes in the storage loft, the mystical properties of the foamy yellow insulation on the garage door, and the importance of not kicking a ball at the pies cooling on the freezer. They will dispatch representatives to the quiet zone, with reports of amazing feats or skinned knees. They will get out of hand and too loud, and they will be gently reminded of fair play and acceptable noise levels by a figure in the doorway with her hands on her hips. They have been corralled and controlled, but they will feel free, and they will never forget it.

The engineer of this space, and the figure with her hands on her hips is my grandmother, and I thank her for letting us be children.

A lot can happen in 80 years. Millions of small acts of kindness and charity, countless lessons learned and passed on, and a general way to live and show others. It takes a lot of energy to be a good person, and even more energy to conscientiously instill that goodness in those around us. A good example is one of the greatest influences a family can hope to have, and we have enjoyed that privilege for as long as any of us can remember. I take many things for granted, and I rarely stop to recognize or show gratitude for the most important things I have. That great example is responsible in part for who I am today, and I hope this goes a short way to show my gratitude.