A Grandfather's Wish for his Grandchildren

While going through our files the last couple of weeks, I came across this essay written by Paul Harvey that my dad admired and copied for each of his children:

We tried so hard to make things better for our kids that we made them worse. For my grandchildren, I'd like better. I'd like for them to know about hand-me-down clothes and homemade ice cream and leftover meatloaf sandwiches. I really would. I hope you learn humility by being humiliated, and that you learn honesty by being cheated. I hope you learn to make your own bed and mow the lawn and wash the car. And I really hope nobody gives you a brand new car when you are sixteen. It will be good if at least once you see puppies born and your dog put to sleep. I hope you get a black eye fighting for something you believe in, I hope you have to share a bedroom with your younger brother. And it's alright if you have to draw a line down the middle of the room, but when he wants to crawl under the covers with you because he is scared, I hope you let him. When you want to see a movie and your little brother wants to tag along, I hope you'll let him. I hope you have to walk uphill to school with your friends and that you live in a town where you can do it safely. On rainy days when you have to catch a ride, I hope you don't ask your driver to drop you two blocks away so you won't be seen riding with someone as uncool as your mom. If you want a slingshot, I hope your dad teaches you how to make one instead of buying one. I hope you learn to dig in the dirt and read books. When you learn to use computers, I hope you also learn to add and subtract in your head. I hope you get teased by your friends when you have your first crush, and when you talk back to your mother that you learn what ivory soap tastes like. May you skin your knee climbing a mountain, burn your hand on a stove and stick your tongue on a frozen flagpole. I don't care if you try a beer once, but I hope you don't like it. And if a friend offers you dope or a joint, I hope you realize he is not your friend. I sure hope you make time to sit on a porch with your grandpa and go fishing with your uncle. May you feel sorrow at a funeral and joy during the holidays. I hope your mother punishes you when you throw a baseball through the neighbor's window and that she hugs you and kisses you at Christmas time when you give her a plaster mold of your hand. These things I wish your for; tough times and disappointment, hard work and happiness. To me, that is the only want to appreciate life.


As I read this for the first time as a mother, tears filled my eyes. I'd say we are on the right path, Dad. My kids know about hand-me-down clothes and homemade cookies and leftovers from last night's home cooked dinner. They know the love of a good dog and about sharing favorite toys with their brother. They have had skinned knees from falling off bikes and climbing trees, and I've had to throw away clothing soiled beyond repair from digging in the dirt. They know their favorite books, the feel of sitting on their mother's lap as she reads them, and have told me more than once that their grandmother's reading voice is nice. They know the joy of catching a fish with their cousin, dad, and grandpa. They are blessed with a family who understands the importance of being together, playing together, and making memories together. Our kids have had their fair share of punishment and more hugs and kisses than they can count. I'm thankful to have these reminders from my dad. And I'm happy to say that I think we're doing alright by him.