I don’t get into cards. Not the playing type. I prefer the homemade and Hallmark type.
I love sending cards. More than I love receiving them. Apparently it’s something I’ve always liked.
Remember how I wrote about my dad cleaning out his mom’s house? Well, he brought a ton of stuff back from the northern Minnesota town he grew up in. A lot more stuff than I even knew Grandma had stored in the attic.
Some of it is hilarious. The pictures of my dad as a kid provided a much-needed laugh last week (I know I said I laughed a lot, but I was also stressed and sleep-deprived). Grandma saved it all. From baby pictures and bibs to my dad’s treasures and toys from boyhood (I promise there will be posts on some of those items at a later date).
Grandma kept boxes of childhood and family memories. Ones she most likely cherished and knew my dad and his family would one day appreciate.
Amidst all the photos and my dad’s Erector set was another box. In that box were memories I don’t remember, but after seeing the contents of the dusty cardboard structure, I now will never forget.
Cards. Homemade and Hallmark.
Cards. I made and purchased.
Cards. I sent to her and my Grandpa.
Cards. I now can read and re-read knowing they meant something special to my Grandma and Grandpa.
They’re just paper. Folded and tattered. My signature is scribbled, color-crayoned, and unreadable. My drawings are quintessential child art. My words are clumsy and big, misspelled and grammatically incorrect. Yet, they are my words, my drawings, my signature of love sent to my grandparents all those years ago.
I never thought my Grandma was one to keep that kind of stuff. The sentimental things that I love. The stuff that I have saved in Rubbermaid’s and old Doc Marten boxes. The “Dearest Granddaughter” type cards her and my Grandpa so faithfully sent to me for all those years. I have all of them. I sometimes read them. Especially when I miss them. When I forget what it is like to get cards from grandparents.
Now, I don’t like comparing, which is what everyone says before they compare, but I always believed my other grandma was the only one who appreciated my cards and care. That was a pre-mature comparison.
The cards my dad retrieved from his old attic are proof that Grandma cared. Probably more than I’ll ever even know. She can no longer recognize my signature. She can no longer recognize my name (sometimes she can, but that’s rare). I like to think that she still knows how much I care. That deep down in her heart’s memory she knows she is loved. Though her sight is poorer than poor and her memory messy, I hold on to the hope that she still remembers those cards I sent. The cards she held onto for all those years.
The cards that showed how much I cared. How much I care.
Most of all, I see now how much she cared. She really did care.
I ask. You answer.
- What’s your favorite card you’ve ever received?
- Have you run across old cards from your grandparents or relatives that reminded you how much they love you?
- Do you still enjoy getting cards in the mail?
- When was the last time you were surprised by something someone saved? Something you didn’t think they even appreciated?