Dearest Emily,
Did you ever wonder what the difference is between chocolate soufflé and chocolate pudding? I know the question sounds crazy, but stay with me on this one and you will soon understand.
In college I took a job at David Angela’s, a restaurant in the ritzy part of town. While most of the desserts we servedwere purchased frozen from a supplier, thawed, and then presented as if fresh, we did actually make our own chocolate soufflé. It was an old family recipe and a house specialty. It was served on a white plate drizzled with raspberry and chocolate syrup. Belgian chocolate was grated on top with just a sprinkle of powdered sugar. It was always made from scratch and it was a sight to behold. While I was there, I actually learned how to prepare it. Can you believe that? Your grandpa in the kitchen cooking. Just the thought scared Kathryn. After we got married, she kicked me out of the kitchen. She said it was ’cause I never cleaned up my mess, but I knew it was because my chocolate soufflé put her to shame.
Anyway, one day I picked up Kathryn, who was getting her hair done—something I’ve honestly never understood. Why would you ever pay someone to make your hair look funny, so you can’t sleep normally for days, afraid you’ll mess it up? Strange custom. Anyway, her hair wasn’t finished, so while I waited, I scanned several of the magazines on the table. There were no outdoor magazines, so I picked up one about cooking and started to flip through its pages. In my flipping, I came across a recipe for chocolate pudding. Yes, chocolate pudding. Not the instant kind, the homemade kind, but chocolate pudding nonetheless. I stared at the recipe and realized the ingredients were exactly the same as the chocolate soufflé I had made at the restaurant. The only real difference between the two was the time and manner in which the ingredients were put together and the way it was presented.
It dawned on me right then and there, Emily, that life is very much like gourmet cooking. The ingredients we are given are often the same as those that others receive. It is how thoseingredients are put together—the detail, the time, and the presentation—that make the difference. While some make pudding, others take just a bit more time, go to a little extra trouble, present their creations properly, and create something sumptuous.
So go to the kitchen, Emily, take the ingredients you’ve been given in life, and make your grandpa a chocolate soufflé.
Love,
Grandpa Harry
“That’s the chocolate pudding advice. The one I found on the plane was the ‘Safety in Numbers’ poem.”“Read it to me again.”
“Sure.” He picked up Harry’s book, flipped to the poem, and began to read.
Find Safety in Numbers
Some may choose to run this race alone, this journey we call life;
They will say you have less baggage, in a world so full of strife.
Now of this, I’m just not certain, if the path is strewn with stones;
And the world is dark and lonely, it seems cold to walk alone.
Where we’re going, rooms aplenty, bring a friend, come arm in arm;
It will make the travel pleasant, keep each other far from harm.
And if two is much less lonely, gather ten all hand in hand;
Bring a light to shine for others, keep away from shifting sand.
So when eighty-two and looking back, I hope to hear some say;
I’m here ’cause someone brought me, he helped me find my way.
“This one was tricky,” Bob announced. “The clue is in thetitle. ‘Find ’ Safety in ‘Numbers. ’ I found the numbers in the poem: that would be two, ten and eighty-two. You type them together and it gets you in.”
He pulled up the laptop, entered the password, and read the accompanying letter.
Dearest Emily,
A great man once said, “On small hinges turn the gates of our lives.” What it means is that little mistakes can often cause such a great loss of joy. I know this all too well. Guard against it. To do this, establish a set of guiding principles in your life and then live by them faithfully. If you do, they will serve as a map, steering you out of dangerous situations and into rewarding ones. Those principles will keep you on the path, avoiding wrong turns of circumstance and pressures of the day. Never compromise your principles, as one small turn can veer you into more difficult paths. Let me illustrate with a story.
Shortly after moving into our home, a friend invited me to go camping. It was a “men only” trip. I believe today they call it “male bonding,” or some such ridiculous term. Anyway, he picked up a few maps from the U.S. Geological Survey and we set out to explore the east range up near Diamond Fork. The trails were easy to follow, and in our exploration we discovered a beautiful natural hot spring in Corner Canyon. A waterfall of chilly mountain water cascaded over a granite cliff into a clear pool at the very point where two scalding mineral springs fed into the water. The mix of water temperatures coupled with the crisp morning air caused a strange swirling of steam above the pool, blanketing the area with a mist. It was serene and yet breathtaking. I wanted to share the beauty with Kathryn, so Iarranged a weekend when I would take her there. We packed our supplies and headed out, but in my haste I left the map sitting on the counter at home. When we discovered my mistake, Kathryn thought we should return for it. I assured her it wouldn’t be necessary; I had been there before and was good at remembering directions. You can guess the outcome, Emily. Without the map, I missed one turn on the trail. That one missed turn caused another and then another. Before I realized where we were, we had hiked miles in the wrong direction. It was dark by the time we retraced our steps to the car, and we never reached the beauty of the crystal pool that day.
So often, Emily, such is life. One wrong turn can catapult us off into the wrong direction. Often before we figure out the mistake and get back on the path, we have missed an opportunity—one that is lost forever.
If you sit down early and decide where you are going in life, and then set some guiding principles to get you there, you will create your very own map. Then, when difficult decisions come or when storm clouds gather, you won’t be confused for you will already know which path will lead to your chosen destination.
I can’t choose your destination or your guiding principles for you. I wish I could, but they must be your own. But, when they are your own—when they are principles that you have established—they will be anchors that are strong and immovable.
I pray, Emily, that you will reach your hopes and dreams. I pray that you will have a happy and fulfilled life. Remember that I love you.
Love,
Grandpa Harry
He’d read it before but he still found it amazing. As he finished reading, he sat motionless staring at the screen.
Laura hated to interrupt his thoughts, and besides, the school was just around the corner. When she pulled against the curb and shut off the car, Bob turned, giving her a puzzled look.
“Sorry, I forgot to tell you. I promised Emily I’d pick her up today. She’ll be out in about ten minutes. Now, you were saying?”
He paused for a moment.“It’s just so strange. He was a crazy old man with Alzheimer’s. How could he have done this?”
Laura was hesitant to say anything, to tell him what she’d discovered. After a moment, she decided now was as good a time as any.
“I need to tell you what I found.”
“What?”
“I tracked down the pills—the ones I told you about. I talked to two doctors, Bob. The doctor who prescribed them was a friend of Harry’s. Apparently Harry would stop by and visit on occasion. He was the one giving the pills to Harry.”
“So, what did he tell you?”
“I never talked to him, he passed away over a year ago.”
“What?”
“I spoke with his son, though. He’s also a doctor. He looked up his dad’s records and even remembered his dad speaking of Harry. The prescription was refilled by mail. It ran out a few months ago, about the time Harry started to get bad.” Bob was interested. She continued. �
�Harry probably suffered from the early stages of Alzheimer’s. But his prescription was to treat depression. The doctor’s notes showed that Harry had suffered from it for a very long time—many years—perhaps his entire life.”
“But the clinic, they said he had AD?”
“I’ve been to the clinic. You should see it. It makes the Department of Motor Vehicles look good. They run the elderly through and they make the easy diagnosis, the one that gives them the most Medicare money. They didn’t run any tests for chemical imbalance, depression, or any kind of mental illness—not one. I had a doctor check. I’m not saying Harry was ‘crazy,’ just that he suffered from some sort of depression. Did you know it affects more than twenty million adults in the United States?”
She had expected him to argue or get angry. Instead he seemed reflective.
“So when did he write this stuff, Laura?”
“I’m guessing he wrote a little while each day. He could have been working on it for years. Who knows? Your dad was a hard person to figure out. In many ways he didn’t share a lot of himself. Perhaps he couldn’t. I honestly don’t know. I think his poems are his best effort to let us know he was trying—that he cared.”
The car’s rear door swung open. “Daddy?”
“Hey, Emily.”
“What are you doin’ here?”
“Were you expecting Leonardo DiCaprio?”
“Who?”
“Never mind. How’s my girl doing?”
“Good, but why are you here?”
“I came for a few days to take care of some stuff—Harry’s things.”
“You’re not staying?”
“For a little bit, honey. What do you say we go to a movie and dinner?”
“Right now?”
“Sure, if it’s okay with your mother. My treat.”
Laura rolled her eyes. “What? Like I have a choice now?”
Emily noticed that Bob carried Harry’s book. While they drove toward the mall, she asked him to read her some of the poems. Bob read aloud for everyone to hear. One in particular caught Emily’s attention.
“I know that one.”
“What do you mean you know it?” Bob inquired.
“I know the answer. It’s the same as the horse joke.”
“What are you talking about, child?” Laura added.
“Read it again and I’ll show you.” Emily was suddenly the center of attention and Laura could tell that she liked it. She would drag this out as long as she could. Bob read the poem again.
My name is so boring, said old farmer Fred.
“I’ll liven the barnyard,” that odd farmer said. “I’ll name all my animals, oh, what a fun game. I’ll think up unusual, odd sort of names.”
The dog he named “Mohama,” I think it’s from Tonga, the pig’s name was “Squarky,” the duck, “Cuckamonga.” The cow, “Woble-Mable,” the goat he called “Jama,” even the frog by the pond, “Lillyrama.”
The cat he called “Pawzer,” the sheep, “Woolsy-Woo,” the horse in the stable was now “Mala-paloo.” And not just the animals, I know it seems funny, but even his wife he called “Sweetie-pie-honey.”
There’s just one I’ve not mentioned, he’s old and he’s lame. It’s the old tired mule, Fred’s hidden his name. This game may seem silly, some even say cruel. Now guess if you can what is the name of the mule.
“Did Harry read a lot of Dr. Seuss?” Bob questioned.
“I was wondering the same thing,” Laura admitted.
“He is clever though. I tried each animal name backwards. I put them all together. Nothing has worked.”
Emily giggled. “Yep, it’s just the same as the horsy joke.”
“Do you care to share it with us, or do you not want a movie after all?” Laura teased.
“Okay, it’s a riddle that Grandpa used to tell me. It goes . . .
I once owned a horse
He won great fame
What-do-you-guess
Was the horse’s name?
“Don’t you get it? The horse was named ‘What-do-you-guess.’ ”
Laura and Bob both looked at each other in amazement. It was so silly, yet right there in front of their faces. Bob clicked on the file and typed in the name of the mule— “Nowguessifyoucanwhat.” To his surprise, the file opened. “Okay, here it goes.”
Dearest Emily,
I will never forget a story my father once told. I suppose it was a fable told to him by his father. Teach it to your children as well.
Once upon a time there was a farmer who owned a mule. The mule was old and was losing his sight. One day the mule stumbled into an abandoned well that lay on the farm. He was shaken by the fall but not hurt, and as he attempted to get out of the well he began to bray. The old mule made so much noise that the farmer rushed to the well to find outwhat the commotion was about. The well was deep and the mule was old. The farmer figured the mule was injured and decided that the most prudent action would be to bury the old mule right then and there. The farmer retrieved a shovel from the barn and began shoveling the old well full of dirt. The mule was confused and concerned about what was happening as dirt began to land on his head and back. It appeared, Emily, that it was the end of him, until an amazing thing happened. Each time a shovel full of dirt fell onto his back, he shook it off and stomped it into the ground beneath him. The more dirt that fell, the more he shook and stomped. By the end of the day, he’d shaken and stomped long enough that even though the well did fill up, he stayed on top. With the well sufficiently full, he stepped out and walked, exhausted, to his stall in the barn.
I don’t mean to compare you to an old mule, Emily, but, in life, there will be people who will throw dirt on you. If you shake it off and don’t let it build up, like that old mule, you’ll be able to rise above those dark situations that will occur in your life.
Life is often difficult. But know also you will never be alone. When you feel a warm breeze on a cool summer evening and you suddenly remember me, I’ll be there. When you’ve climbed as high as you possibly can climb and your body will go no farther, I’ll be behind you to push you up one more step. When you fall, I’ll be beneath you to soften the pain. You will not see me, but I will always be there.
I love you. Be good and always do the right thing.
Love,
Grandpa Harry
GREG AND MICHELLE ARRIVED ON THE MORNING FLIGHT. They rented a car and drove to the Denny’s just off the freeway in Midvalley to meet Bob and Laura. It was a quick breakfast. Greg seemed anxious to get going.
Both cars pulled up in front of Harry’s old brick house at the same time. Bob eyed Greg as he removed a long cardboard box from the trunk of his car. As he neared the steps, Bob could see it was a brand new metal detector. “Look close and I’ll bet you can see dollar signs in his eyes,” he muttered to Laura. She nudged him to be quiet.
“I picked this up from a specialty electronics store near the office,” Greg announced, as he pulled it out of the box. “It’s supposed to be state-of-the-art.”
“Well, it ought to be, with all those buttons. Did they teach you how to use it?” Bob asked.
“It’s easy. Let’s start in the basement and I’ll show you how it works.”
The thought of Greg teaching him anything grated on Bob’s nerves, but at the same time he was glad Greg had brought it. It would be horrible to sell the house, only to find out later that the new owners had discovered a stash of gold coins hidden somewhere inside.
Bob and Greg headed to the basement to start the search while the women sat comfortably at the kitchen table. They were supposed to be searching as well, but decided it was a job best left to the men and their electronic toy. “We’ll just do what we do best,” Michelle whispered to Laura. “Chat!”
As they usually visited only at Christmas, in many ways the two women felt like strangers. But today, Laura found it easy to talk to Michelle. The conversation started with information swapping about the children—Emily was in the secon
d grade and loved her teacher—Michelle’s kids were in fourth and sixth; Preston in soccer, and Devin in piano. They discussed jobs, neighbors, and clothing before Michelle mentioned Bob.
“I was just sick, Laura, when Bob told me you two were splitting up.” She reached out and touched Laura on the leg. Laura wasn’t sure what to say. Michelle continued, “And, just because he’s my brother doesn’t mean I think he’s right. If you ask me, he’s a fool.”
Laura was appreciative of the support. “Thanks. I’ll tell you, it can be so confusing at times. He comes back home and things seem to go well for a while, but then a few days or weeks later it’s as though he were a different person; it just never seems to work out. In the long run, perhaps it’s best.” Several minutes passed before the door opened, and Greg and Bob entered the kitchen.
“Did you find anything?” Greg asked Michelle.
She smiled. “Not yet, dear, but as soon as we do, you’ll be the first to know—and besides, you guys have the high-tech equipment. Does it work? Are we all rich yet?”
“Well, nothing yet,” Greg replied briskly.
“Not exactly nothing,” Bob interjected with a grin. “We did cut two holes in the wall before we figured out the metal detector’s signals for copper plumbing pipe.” He gave Laura a quick roll of the eyes.
“It’s working great now,” Greg continued. “Besides, the holes are behind the door. We can plug them easily.”
“Well, don’t let us stop you,” Laura said. “We’ll check again under the kitchen table in a minute.” She gave Michelle a wink.
“On this floor,” Bob began, “I think we should start in Harry’s bedroom and work our way toward the front. What do you think?” He was trying to be civil. The truth was he couldn’t have cared less what Greg thought. Both marched to the bedroom.
The room was still full of Harry’s things. It made Bob feel like he was snooping where he didn’t belong. Greg didn’t seem to notice.
Letters For Emily Page 12
