Dear Next Generation,
I hope this letter finds you in good health and happy. I am sure your work is profitable and I hope enjoyable. I wish you could be here with me but I know that would be a step back in your endeavors. So instead, I’ll write you as often as I can and share those things that I hope will help you.
Today I was thinking about something I was told when I was but seven years of age. It’s memory that I still have, proves that it was a lessen that found a place in my being. It was told to me by my Grandmother while I was sitting at her kitchen table.
She was busy making one of her finest Sunday dinners. The oven was very warm and caused the kitchen to be equally warm. I had a small part in that temperature problem because I placed sticks under the heating plates that she lifted for me. There was a fire under there and it heated the entire stove top. There was a warmer above there where she was rasing rolls. I can’t remember where the fire was that heated the oven as she had already lit that. Requardless, the whole place smelled of raising dough which made me hungry.
Over on the counter top was a bowl of butter that she had made days earlier. It was golden in color and its taste was strong. She had a special way of making butter. My Grandfather would milk the cows every evening and she would seperate the cream. After she had enough cream, she would leave it out to sour. Only then would she put it into her butter churn and crank the handle for a while. All at once, that sloshing cream jumped into butter. Bright gold and chunky. She seperated the liquid and pressed the butter into wooden forms. I could have been fat had I had this special butter on her homemade rolls every day because I could eat all that she allowed me to. My Mother on the other hand, grew up with this fantastic golden treat, couldn’t stand it. I was shocked but it meant more for my seven year old stomach.
I sat at her table watching in amazement at her ability to switch between tasks. She would check on the oven, which was a fascinating smell every time she opened it and I knew it was a big roast beef giving up all those aromas. This caused my stomach to growl but I had to be patient. I kind of felt guilty at the noise because she was working so hard. I pretended to smile at her as if I wasn’t dying. I’m not sure she bought that routine.
The vegetables from the garden were dancing in boiling water on the stove top and she would give them a stir. If the boiling water wasn’t furious enough she would say, “Danny! More wood.” and I would grab a few pieces from the box next to the stove and she would remove the pot, grab a iron tool that fit into a slot on the round iron plate that was under the pot that she had pushed aside. Fire and smoke followed the plate that she removed for me to shove sticks down there. I pushed them in there and she let the iron disc back down on it. She put the pot back on it and it took a moment for my wood to bring it back to full boil. This was an achievement in planning and knowing when to add wood to keep somewhat of a steady temperature. She knew how to handle a wood fired stove. She didn’t really need my help but I think she enjoyed my company as I did hers.
So while she performed a masterful dance of preparing a luxiourous Sunday dinner she just stopped and spoke to me. I was thinking, this stuff is going to burn up if she doesn’t tend to it. Still, she caught me by surprise by what she said.
She had told me lots of really fun stories of her past before and I loved them. I suppose bright eyed would convey how I received those stories. But here, I mean now, a story? Dinner was very energetic and trying to be ready. She had lots to still do. The wood that I added at her request had achieved full temperature. The whole stove top was noisy. But she stopped and wanted to tell me this one thing.
She said, “Danny, the older you get, the faster time goes.”
That’s it, She didn’t even wait for my reaction. She popped the rolls in the oven while the roast was dumping powerful smells that said eat me. Those rolls had grown in size and I wanted one right now. So much for the vegetables that achieved full boil. As a seven year old, those could just as well not been there. They received my assistance in the stick processes, but I was hoping they would just boil dry.
I thought for probably a millisecond, what she said to me. It was weird and I didn’t get it.I mean come on, a year is forever, let alone a month. The days were long because it was summer and simply everything took a long time to happen. It would be a whole six years until I was a teenager. It might as well never come. Those were the thought processes of a seven year old just told a fact by a generationally different human being.
Well after just a few years past, that memory came back to me. I could still smell those rolls. Then it dawned on me, time had passed and quickly. Especially since I was looking back on that memory. It seemed like a split second ago when she said it.
Now the meaning of what she said is more clear than ever. It makes perfect sense. Time is not linear. It’s subjective to the the amount of time that you think you have. When you’re little, time is enormous and hence moves slowly. Later in life, time can’t be caught.
The only thing that I would love for you to get from this is to never take for granted the amount of time you have. Time only respects the past. Every moment that is given to you, use to the fullest and never waste time.
I know that yours is the greatest generation ever to be. I’m so glad you have given me a small chance to help continue your march to greatness.
Thanks for reading Fast and I hope you enjoyed it. I’ll write you again soon.
Until next time Dear Next Generation; Do try new things safely for the betterment of you and your generation. You’re the best.