Six days a week, up and down the red hills of northeast Georgia, my grandfather brought the mail to the folks there. At age 68, he retired from the post office, but he never stopped serving the community.
On his 80th birthday, I sent him a letter, noting the things we all should be thankful for — good health, good friends and good outcomes. By most measurements he was a happy man. Then I suggested it was time for him to slow down. At long last, in a comfortable home, with a generous pension, he should learn to take things easy.
“Thank you for your nice words,” he wrote in his letter back, “and I know what you meant, but slowing down scares me. Life isn't having it made; it's getting it made.”
“The finest and happiest years of our lives were not when all the debts were paid, and all difficult experiences had passed, and we had settled into a comfortable home. No. I go back years ago, when we lived in a three-room house, when we got up before daylight and worked till after dark to make ends meet. I rarely had more than four hours of sleep. But what I still can't figure out is why I never got tired, never felt better in my life. I guess the answer is, we were fighting for survival, protecting and providing for those we loved. What matters are not the great moments, but the partial victories, the waiting, and even the defeats. It's the journey, not the arrival, that counts.”
The letter ended with a personal request: “Boy, on my next birthday, just tell me to wake up and get going, because I will have one less year to do things — and there are ten million things waiting to be done.”
Christina Rossetti, an English poet, once said: “Does the road wind uphill all the way? Yes, to the very end.” Today, at 96, my grandfather is still on that long road, climbing.
