My dad’s dad, Hank, died in 1932, 13 years before I was born.
A year before my dad died in 1999, I asked him to journal about Hank. To my surprise, he did. Here are tidbits of a few of his wonderful stories.
“In the spring of ’25, an airplane flew over the schoolhouse, and the teacher, Miss Yegge, told all the students to run out and see the passing fancy because the Bible said only birds were meant to fly. The kids all agreed with Miss Yegge.”
“One day, when my mom was ill, she ordered Hank to go to town and buy bread. At the prospect of paying a quarter for three loaves, Hank was upset and stated that a family that had to buy bread (rather than bake it) would surely end up in the poor house.”
“When the Ogden, Iowa, fairgrounds were converted to a golf course, Hank told me he hoped I would have better things to do in my life than chase a little white ball around a pasture.”
These are all gifts that my father, Vern, gave me about Hank. Today, I fly around the country, play golf and buy bread. But I fell in love with Hank.
For your grandchildren’s sake, please journal a bit about what you did today.