The Grateful Dad

Thanks for dinner.

Thanks for having us over.

Thanks for the call.

Thanks for making the banana bread.

Thanks for inviting me to the hockey game.

Thanks for picking me up from my colonoscopy.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I have a complex about writing thank you notes. My errant habits started as a child and have plagued me ever since. Every Christmas, after my grandmother showered us with gifts, I was tasked with writing thank you notes to her and all the relatives. And I would procrastinate. 

I realize, now, that it wasn’t that I didn’t feel thankful - I always expressed my sincere gratitude to her, in-person or on the phone, along with warm holiday greetings. But for my Alabama Grandma, a formal, written thank you was the only expression that counted. To prove the critical necessity of this cultural norm, my grandma gifted me the Emily Post Book of Etiquette (for which, of course, I had to pen a thank you note) and mailed me a Miss Manners column snipped from her local paper, entitled “Thank Yous are Obligatory for All Gifts.” (I was 10.) Nonetheless, the post-holiday days would slip by and I wouldn’t write them. Eventually, my parents would threaten that I could not leave my bedroom until the thank yous were written.

I grew up feeling like I had an immutable character flaw: that I lacked gratitude, and that I was shamefully unthankful for gifts, for favors, for compliments. 

But you know who was always really good at saying thank you? My dad. The son of my grandma always remembers to express gratitude. Over time, I have received literally hundreds of thank you emails, promptly sent from my dad - acknowledging times I have invited him to dinner, joined him for a doctors’ appointment, or assisted him with a task. Not effusive or flowery - usually a one or two-liner, right to the point:

Thanks for dinner.

Thanks for having us over.

Thanks for the call.

Thanks for making the banana bread.

Thanks for inviting me to the hockey game.

Thanks for picking me up from my colonoscopy.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I have always considered that my grandma succeeded with my dad where she failed with me. However, recently I had an insight that maybe I am not totally a lost cause.

A few days ago my oldest child, a high school junior, was extolling the virtues of an online flashcard app, recommended by a teacher. 

“It’s used mostly by med students, mom . . . I’ve used it for so many classes . . . it lets me organize the cards by how well I know the material.” 

I responded, “Wow, have you thanked your teacher for that recommendation?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should do that. He’d probably be pleased to know. Teachers make a lot of suggestions, but I bet they don’t always receive feedback . . . .”

My teenager was hesitant. Wouldn’t that be kind of . . . awkward? As we had this conversation, in an effort to encourage, I could think of many examples in which I had made the intentional effort to acknowledge someone for a kindness or a job well done:

The bus driver, who managed a difficult rider and was able to deliver her to her destination without compromising

the peace of the rest of the passengers.

The school administrator, who ensured accessible seating for grandparents at my son’s middle school graduation

ceremony.

The Scoutmaster, who maintains calm and cultivates joy amid the chaos of a troop of scouts who are learning to govern

themselves.

In each of these instances, I noticed and acknowledged acts of others that were worthy of recognition. 

My gratitude does not usually require a stamp; but it is not withheld. In my encounter with my child, I realized my dad has modeled this value for me for my whole life. Now I am passing it on.

Thank you, Daddy.

By: Laura Brown