From One Day to One Hundred Years
It's nice to write a nice Substack post today. I'm going a bit personal. If you've ever thought "One day, I'll do it," whatever it is, I hope you read until the end.
My grandfather had a blue 1974 Chrysler Newport, or New Yorker Sedan. A classic giant, or at least something like it.
It was set up just like the house. In the front sat my granddad on the left and my grandma on the right, in the passenger. Just like the two wooden rocking chairs guarding the front door on the porch. The backseat was the living room, with a big plush couch for me to lay on. Except, instead of a blue carpet on the floor, there was blue seats, deep velvet, turning seal skin or shark depending on how I swayed my hands, commanding the colors, commanding the sea.
If the front seats were the porch, and the back seat was the couch, if we go along with this, the trunk was the kitchen. Or at least the refrigerator. Instead of a wrinkly, white icebox, uninsulated, paper-thin crinkly bags held our groceries until we reached the real house, inside.
It’s funny that the bags were paper thin, because they were actually plastic. These were bags the store gave you for free during checkout. Bags you didn’t have to buy. Bags that were stashed under the sink and reused at home. Just like the new, barely thicker, more colorful plastic bags we pay for and bring with us before checkout.
Between the fridge and the mobile one, the groceries temporarily lived on the two steps above the sidewalk leading to the front seat. I mean the porch. Our produce was separated from the ground by white, slick translucent handerchiefs, with thinner seaweed variety of plastic inside for the veggies, and a generic clear and typefaced oil wrapper for the snacks. A walking birch, he slowly climbed the four steps he had built from the brick he had laid before the Civil Rights Era was called "the Civil Rights Era,” and casually went by “Wednesday.” Looking to root in the wooden planks my grandfather also fixed, he rested his elbows on the iron-wrought banisters he had installed before I even existed. Standing, balancing his head on his thumbs, he would stop there to check for the mail in the matching, black iron mailbox.
And to catch his breath.
My grandfather was a grand father indeed. To his kids. To his grandchildren. To me. But his lungs were incredibly tiny. They were Black baby fists. Tight, grasping for air. I’ve never been able to imagine my grandfather as an infant. But instead of loud cries, his emphesema had each breath sound like the last two rattling leaves right before they fall in winter.
After he was safely seated, rooted, reformed back to Guardian of the Porch, I ran laps — running the bags from the porch to the icebox, from the trunk to the kitchen, putting my youth to use. As if it were hungry for more groceries, or waiting for me to pull a tube out of its gullet, I would stick my head inside the mouth of that big bodied car. Between the motor oil, the jack, and a spare that grew carpet over it from never being used, on a count of my grandfather being a great driver — I found what I think the trunk was saying “AHH” for. It wanted me to take some sticks out of its belly — two fishing rods.
Being raised by the Greatest Generation means you grow up on “Leave it to Beaver” and Blues Clues. I remember in all the black&white shows with the Black and white and gray people, seeing the “Gone Fishin’” sign and thinking about those fishing rods in the back.
My grandfather and I didn’t have a chance to go fishing when we went down South. I don’t doubt he did, though I don’t know when he would have. As a child, it’s difficult to imagine how your caretaker could possibly do other things, with other people, or even drift outside your orbit. But in my line of sight, living up North, going fishing with my grandfather meant going to the fish market after school to see my family. Every. Single. Day. It was so much fun. And filling.
But even though we had fish to hold us before dinner, I always wanted to go fishing, especially after grocery shopping. I wanted to turn that Gone fishin’ sign on the door. Not to even catch anything. Just for the experience. I remember growing up, every trip, saying in my head and outloud, how one day my grandfather and I will go fishing. One day pop pop and I will go.
One day, I learned how to tie my shoes using the bunny ears from those white plastic bags. I started watching PBS and more TV Land.
Then, one day, I got older. And I moved. Twice.
Another “one day” passed by. I was Gone Fishin’. It was some summer in Somerville. I rode my bike to Fresh Pond with neighborhood kids who were both my bullies and my friends. I baited the hook. I caught sunfish. I let them go. The friends that is. Fish are friends, not food! It was very Huckleberry Fun. Finn. I called my grandfather. I told him what I did! By that time, my grandfather didn’t talk much. But I could tell he was happy.
I think.
At least that’s what I tell myself. I can’t remember if I called my grandfather about going fishing. Though I’d like to think I did. Because my grandfather and I going fishing? A few more summers came. A few more falls left. Those tiny fists relaxed into hands. His last leaves fell before we had the chance.
Like me, You’ve been saying “one day” for a long time now.
One day, I’ll write that family story.
One day, I’ll ask my relative what really happened.
One day, I’ll host that reunion.
One day, I’ll make that family timeline or archive.
One day, I’ll call so-and-so.
But the truth is: “one day” is not coming.
Especially if you don’t have support,
Or don’t know where to start.
We either make it to-day, or we lose more than just time.
We lose names. We lose recipes.
We lose opportunities. We lose ourselves.
🪴 Seeding Memories, my new offering, is not another course.
It’s a practice. A rhythm. A remembering.
There’s never been a day I have not thought of my grandfather.
And that’s because he is, was, and will always be, my anchor.
For me, I’ve made action from my “one day” to celebrate what would be my grandfather’s 100th birthday all this year. And that’s through:
Posts like this
Honoring his memory
Gardening
Being present with my family — in meaningful and managable ways—
and creating Seeding Memories.
To ensure you can make steps to make “one day” become “today."
✋🏾 This is your invitation to stop delaying what you know you're here to do.
Seeding Memories: The Legacy Stewardship Lab is a 7-week guided journey to take that vision in your mind’s eye and get it rooted in something real. We’re starting April 30th. In 9 days.
No more waiting.
No more talking.
We’re walking.
We’re planting.
We’re finishing.
We’re Gone Fishin’!
So if you’re ready to go from “One Day” to “To-Day,”
or want to share your plans for “One Day”
please — message me.
We can get there, together.
💯 Join me in Celebrating my Grandfather’s Centennial all this year by sharing this email!
🔗 How can I support your memory journey? Take my 3 minute survey!
Was this sent to you? Be sure to click the button below to subscribe!
Note: This work is a labor of love. This post is personal and I felt moved to make it public. To honor the exchange of sharing, in the future, personal posts will be accessible for paid subscribers. I hope you consider growing your support for this sacred work, so it too, can expand.