Tuesday, November 26, 1996
Dear Gramma,
Oh, boy! This Thursday, we will eat turkey! Yes, on Thursday and Friday, Saturday, maybe even Sunday.
I thought of life’s blessings as I paged through a recent issue of The New Yorker and paused to examine a black-and-white photo in a full-page advertisement. I wasn’t sure at first what the ad was selling.
In the picture, a white woman, not much younger than I, was sitting in a wicker armchair on a porch. A light-colored dog, reminding me a lot of my family’s Chester, posed with belly on the ground but head in a state of alertness beside the chair. The woman displayed no jewelry except a watch with a leather band. Her hairstyle was unexceptional, her clothing was modest—sport shirt, jeans with the cuffs rolled up a turn, and new-looking, rubber-soled, lace-up moccasins. She was leaning forward slightly; her clasped hands were pressed somewhat tensely against one of her knees. Woman and dog were gazing off toward something out beyond my view.
What did this advertiser want me to buy? Clothing? Porch furniture? A pedigreed dog? White lettering superimposed on the photo gave me a clue:
Your grandfather did better
than his father.
Your father did better
than his father.
Are you prepared
to carry on the tradition?
Ah! This must be about an investment program. A glance at a narrow column of small print down the right side of the page confirmed that someone was appealing to my competitive instincts, hoping to get me to put money into a retirement plan.
Although I liked the photo a lot, the words on the ad seemed silly. Here was a picture of a woman purportedly pondering her financial future, but the ad mentioned only a person’s paternal ancestral line. What about the women in the family of the woman on the wicker chair? I felt like asking, While we’re being so nosy, ma’am, can we get you to tell: how is your mom doing? Better, would you say, than your grandma? Perhaps the sellers of the retirement plan have forgotten the old saying, “Behind most every successful man stands a woman pestering him to proceed to new heights of achievement.” (I forget the exact wording. Am I close?)
The ad did not succeed in getting me to look ahead to retirement (my wife keeps track of the future for our family—I can barely keep up with the present). I did, however, do a little thinking about family history and family finances in this 20th century.
There have been times of prosperity, times of poverty, and many times somewhere in between. Not every generation has done “better”—nor even aspired to do better—than the preceding generation. My ancestors and I have generally been contented people, not hell-bent on amassing material wealth and evidently seldom heatedly competing with Ma and Pa. When we haven’t done “well,” we’ve done “well enough.”
This Thursday—in the company of family, friends, and a moist roast turkey—I shall thank the Lord for an assortment of blessings and a life with few regrets. After the feast, I plan to relax in a wicker chair with Chester at my side. Someone scrutinizing us might find a faraway look in our eyes. The dog and I will be considering our wealth, you see. But we will not, I assure you, be tallying our stocks, bonds, and checkbook balances.
I wish you, dear Gramma, a HAPPY THANKSGIVING DAY.
Love,
Buddy
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