Monday was Grandma Day. Every Monday in grade school, Grandma picked my brother and me up from school and took us to her house.
Grandpa was usually still at work, so while we waited for him to come home, I’d wander around the house until I eventually found myself at the marble kitchen counter where Grandpa sat each morning to write in his journal. I would flip through the dotted pages of his journal, rarely reading the words.
What caught my attention instead were his drawings. Grandpa would litter the pages with goofy sketches, pictures, and whatever else came to mind that day. To me, his journals were just entertaining collections of colorful pictures. I never grasped why he wrote everything down.
As I got older, I became more curious. I began reading what my grandfather had written. I discovered his journals were more than words on paper; they held his thoughts, stories, jokes, to-do lists, political opinions, and even ordinary details of his daily life. His journals gave me a fuller picture of who he was.
Grandpa loved to share his journals, so when he noticed my interest, he began encouraging me to start journaling myself. At first, I didn’t understand why, and honestly, I was somewhat reluctant. Since most of my days weren’t special, why write them down? But he persisted and bought me my own leather journal, so I gave it a try.
Now, I think I understand him. I realize I can’t relive my childhood. I won’t ever be the kid spending Mondays at Grandma’s house again. And as time passes, the small details of those days grow harder to hold onto. But my journal can remember them for me.
That is the power of ink. Ink is a way of pinning a moment to the page before time can take it away. Thoughts that would fade in seconds can last years and ordinary days can become memories.
And now, as my grandpa faces cancer, his journals mean even more to me. There may be a day when my own children don’t get the chance to meet him. Yet, because of his journals, they will get to know him through his own words. They can experience his playful personality and hear the stories of his childhood on a chicken farm. My grandpa preserved himself in his journals; now, I’m doing the same thing.
Someday, my children will want to know who I was before I became their dad. They won’t be able to meet the seventeen-year-old writing this. But, I hope they'll one day open my journal to see who I once was. For a moment, they’ll meet someone who only exists in those pages.
My grandpa showed me that life doesn’t have to be extraordinary to be worth remembering. He taught me that even the small moments are meaningful, and that with ink and a pen, I can make these moments live forever. I believe in ink.
