Nurturing the Next Great Generation

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The I.O.U. Christmas

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This holiday season as the pile of presents grows under our tree, I’m thinking of a very different Christmas long ago. I was 11 years old then, in 1970, a…

This holiday season as the pile of presents grows under our tree, I’m thinking of a very different Christmas long ago.

I was 11 years old then, in 1970, a time when three of my older brothers had left for college, leaving our big old brown-shingled house outside Boston feeling uncharacteristically quiet and empty. Living with four older brothers was like having a front row seat to the best circus in town, every day of the year. Dinners were raucous feasts. Stupid jokes and insults flew like hurled objects in a food fight. The sole record player in the house was claimed by different brothers day and night, filling the house with songs by Bob Dylan, the Beatles, the Stones, Ian & Sylvia, Pete Seeger or The Byrds : “to everything, turn, turn, turn…”

But as my brothers grew up and went off to college one by one, it was as if the knob on the amplifier was being turned down year by year, and the house grew quieter and quieter and quieter.

“There is a season, turn, turn, turn…”

Calvin left for college first, then Charlie, then Nick. By 1970, most of the time it was just my brother John and me, roaming through the empty house like two feral cats left in a shelter. For the first time in my life, I often felt something entirely new and unpleasant: Loneliness. I really, really missed the circus.

For my parents, having three sons away at college brought its own challenge. The simultaneous tuition payments were crushing, driving my parents to extremes in a desperate scramble to save money.

It was like they were right back in the Great Depression, and they brought John and me back with them. Our regular gallons of rich whole milk were replaced by jugs of Carnation instant milk, a vile watery mix that even our cats wouldn’t lick. The practice of giving me hand-me-down shoes became even more entrenched, to the point where I was instructed to wear my older brothers’ leftovers even if they didn’t fit very well. To this day I have hammer toes to remind me of my personal 1970s Great Depression. These days parents would just get college loans and rack up debt (I did). But if such loans existed in 1970 my parents would have scoffed at the idea. When there was no money to spend, they simply didn’t spend it.

This is how I found myself experiencing a Christmas like no other before or since.

A few days before the holiday, Calvin, Charlie and Nick had returned from college. The circus was in town once again, a welcome burst of brotherly mayhem. All the rooms were full as if they’d never left. Our Christmas Eve dinner was a jostling mass of elbows and jokes and ravenous feasting and laughing and teasing. I absolutely loved it. The next morning, very early, my brothers and I gathered at the top of the stairs. The tradition was that we’d wait for everyone to go down together at the same time. When our parents finally joined us, we jumped out of the gate and ran down to the living room.

My first thought upon seeing the presents around the bottom of the Christmas tree was “Wow.” All the boxes were big. What had our parents bought us that required such enormous packages?

I ran to my box and began excitedly peeling back the wrapping paper, pulling open the final flap of cardboard to reveal…an empty box. No present whatsoever. There was only a small notecard with my dad’s neat all-capital handwriting. It read. “I.O.U. ONE MONOPOLY GAME. LOVE, MOM AND DAD”

Me in 1970 with the very large presents Christmas morning.

Each box was empty except for an I.O.U.

My brothers tore open their packages to reveal their own empty boxes, each with its own IOU. We all laughed. It was weird and funny and somehow magical at the same time.

My brothers seemed to feel the same way. For all my parents’ depression-era idiosyncrasies and comical frugality, we knew for sure that they really did love us. And besides, we were together and having fun. What did we really want or need beyond that? Out of all my childhood Christmases, this was by far the very best.

In a few weeks, my grandchildren—a circus of 4—will rush downstairs to find many presents under the tree. There will be toys inside each box, and real candy stuffed in their stockings strung along the fireplace. This will be lovely, but I have to admit that I have mixed feelings about the sheer volume of gifts. The plentitude. Boxes upon boxes filling most of the room. All this juxtaposed with my vivid memory of unwrapping my empty box, and knowing when I read the IOU that it wasn’t really empty at all. It was filled with a loving promise that my parents and brothers would always be there for me. That’s all I really want to give my grandkids this year. That is all that matters.

This belief is what animates my inner Scrooge to wake from a vivid dream and run to the window at dawn…

“He opened it, and put out his head. No fog, no mist. Clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold—cold, piping for the blood to dance to—golden sunlight; Heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells—oh glorious, glorious!

“What’s today?” cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in Sunday clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look about him.

“EH?” returned the boy, with all his might of wonder.

“What’s today, my fine fellow!” said Scrooge.

“Today!” replied the boy. “Why, CHRISTMAS DAY'”

“It’s Christmas Day!” said Scrooge to himself. “I haven’t missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can.”

I wish you and your family a very merry holiday, with the best and largest turkey you can find. Or a big empty box with an IOU for Chinese takeout. Have fun. Give everyone a big hug. And I’ll be back with more stories in the New Year.

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BUCKET O' WISDOM

Timeless Wisdom from a Six-Year-Old

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Whenever I interviewed elders for my Good Grandpa book, whether it was my Aunt Lois, a retired pro football grandpa, or the Dalai Lama, I always concluded by asking for…

Whenever I interviewed elders for my Good Grandpa book, whether it was my Aunt Lois, a retired pro football grandpa, or the Dalai Lama, I always concluded by asking for their #1 most essential wisdom.

As you can imagine, I learned some wonderful things along the way. Their ideas where like beautiful antiques, enough to fill a chest in the attic one might come across one day and open with great delight.

Just a few weeks after I submitted the manuscript to my publisher, my wife and I received another gift: our son is expecting his third child early next year — another girl. This will bring our tally of grandchildren to five, which we are of course over the moon about. It also means that our eldest granddaughter, Roen—now 6—will have two little sisters. We took Roen and her little sister, Mae, out for a delicious gluten-free brunch to celebrate. As I watched them chatting away and devouring their breakfast sandwiches, I thought again about all those #1 things that the elders shared with me. And here before me was an “elder” in a different form, still a child, but a big sister who perhaps had some wisdom to share. So, on a lark, I asked Roen for her #1 most essential wisdom.

“No matter what you want to do,” Roen replied, “be your best at it.”

This sounded so adult-like I thought maybe I’d misheard her. But sure enough, this six-year-old girl had in fact shared some excellent wisdom with us. It’s possible her parents, or her other grandparents, had shared these exact words with her recently and she was parroting them back. Or she’d learned this on her own. Or something in-between.

There was a lesson there for me in that moment, something that brought back memories of my time as a young father: don’t assume that children have nothing meaningful to contribute.

In fact, do the opposite. There is often a freshness to their thinking, an innate wisdom that too often gets lost in the shuffle when they grow up and get distracted by the heavy demands of adulthood. The treasure chests of childhood wisdom are typically overlooked simply because we assume they are not there.

I’d been seeking wisdom only from old people like me, but perhaps—like love—wisdom is actually all around.

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STORIES

Grandma’s Karmann Ghia

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On December 3rd, 1947, the blond-coiffed professional wrestler known as Gorgeous George ascended into the ring of the Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles, basking in the applause and jeers of…

On December 3rd, 1947, the blond-coiffed professional wrestler known as Gorgeous George ascended into the ring of the Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles, basking in the applause and jeers of the massive crowd.

He was joined in the ring by his opponent, a six-foot-tall muscular black wrestler who went by the name of Reginald Siki, sometimes called The Panther. The instant the starting bell rang, George ran at Siki, took a flying leap and delivered a dropkick to his chin. Siki obligingly collapsed, ending the match after only 12 seconds. Gorgeous George’s path to fame accelerated, his telegenic theatrics a perfect match for the burgeoning age of television.

Siki would be dead within a year, a relative unknown today, yet far more deserving of recognition. Siki won numerous matches in this career, but due to the color of his skin his name was never entered in the record books.

Born Reginald Berry in Kansas City, Missouri in 1899, Siki was—according to a fascinating article in Slam magazine—among the most prominent Black athletes of his day, achieving fame largely in Eastern Europe where he could escape from the rampant racism of North America (in Canada the press once dubbed him “gorilla man”).

After performing for a stretch in Germany in the months leading up to World War II, Siki and his wife were arrested in 1942 and imprisoned in Tittmoning, a Medieval castle in Bavaria along with hundreds of Americans. Siki nearly starved to death. At one point, a fellow inmate, Max Brandel, drew a caricature of him which Siki inscribed with the words, “Let’s keep going.” Brandel became a contributor to MAD magazine (“What, me worry?”).

I learned the story of Siki when I met up with his great-great grandson, James Lott Jr., in Zoom-land recently to further my deep dive into the varied lives of grandpas.

James Lott Jr.

James, 55, has a detonation of black hair that expands out in all directions, a neatly trimmed white goatee, and a vibrant and friendly personality. He has a whole string of letters after his name—CTACC CDC LVN PMO OA DD—that speak to his thirst for learning. “I’m a chameleon of many sorts,” James said. I’d call that an understatement. James is the CEO and Founder of JLJ Media, the CEO and Founder of Super Organizer, certified as a professional organizer and life coach, holds a nursing degree and a PH.D., has done acting gigs on commercials and an episode of House (season four, episode four), has his own YouTube channel, and does a podcast called Really! I’m a Grandparent!. James, who’s single, lives in Englewood, California, and stays close to his many nearby grandchildren.

James started his career as a farm and agricultural insurance specialist, but during the recession of 2008 he had a major epiphany.

“I realized I hated my job,” James told me, “hated everything in the city, my kids were grown and I’d already become a grandfather. I decided to change my whole life.” He made a list of all the things he loved to do, “I like filing. I like organizing. I like people. I like media. I don’t mind speaking in front of people. So I talked about it with my grandfather’s sister, and she said, There’s a business in there. Entrepreneurship!”

James moved back to his family home in Los Angeles and started Super Organizer L.L.C., providing organizational services to a growing roster of clients that today includes movie stars.

He also followed his passion for video and podcasting, with a flair for being on camera, through his media enterprise. The media world is James’s version of the Forever Letter. “My grandkids know me as this person who talks to celebrities. When I die, they can just go online and see their grandfather.”

When I learned that James became a grandpa at the tender young age of 39, I said, “Wow, I thought I was young at 55 when my first grandchild was born. You were way ahead of me!”

“Here’s the deal,” James replied, “I started my podcast because I saw the face of grandparenting has changed. My show is for young grandparents. I come from a long line of them. I grew up with grandparents who still jogged and dated and were having kids.” When James told me this I tried, and failed, to imagine the grandparents in my life jogging. The only time I could see them moving that quickly was to run away from bears.

One of James’ grandfathers—Grandpa Bob— was an executive with Chase bank in Manhattan.

“He was young, a Rolling Stone,” James said, “dressed very sharp, smoked a cigar, totally New York, the whole thing.” James’ other grandfather was white and Dutch, a little older, with a white beard. “My two grandfathers were like chess pieces on opposite sides of the board.” One of James’s youthful grandmothers would start her day running ten miles and swimming five. She drove a sporty Karmann Ghia (my Gram, in her late 70s, drove a vintage pink Rambler, cheerfully oblivious to the concept of lanes).

Through his podcast, James has connected with all kinds of young grandparents. “I’m meeting more and more people in their 30s and 40s who are grandparents,” he said. “It’s no big deal in their lives. It’s like, ‘I had a daughter at 18, and she had a child at 18.” Being a single grandpa who’s active in the LA dating scene is also a different ballgame. “I never know when to bring it up,” James said. “Sometimes it comes out organically, like, What are you doing this weekend? I’m seeing my grandkids in Sacramento. It’s a mixed reaction.”

James also sees that many of today’s youthful grandfathers are playing a larger role in the lives of their grandkids.

“I always think it’s a generational thing; a lot of times the grandmother is seen as the nucleus of the family, but there are some good grandfathers out there who do run families. It’s part of my mission to share that.”

“The second thing for me,” James continued, “is the multiracial aspect. I have grandkids that look the spectrum from blond hair and freckles to brown.” During the period of civil unrest after the George Floyd killing, James had honest talks with his grandkids about the police based on his own negative experiences. The brown grandkids had a different talk than the blond ones. “But the Gen Z’s and Gen Alphas,” James said, “they’re actually not caught up in all that suff. We’re the ones caught up in it—we Boomers and Millennials. My grandkids have a set of friends whose parents were same-sex. Their first President was Black. So, their whole outlook is different.”

James has found there’s a generational shift in perspectives on work-life balance as well, with many young people choosing educational and career paths outside the norms pounded into us by our Greatest Generation parents.

“These kids are saying, you want to pay me $10 an hour to do that?” James said. “They’re questioning. Some are choosing trade schools instead of college. I was taught to work at a job until you’re 65 and then you retire and travel. I’m actually impressed with how much these kids don’t care about certain things that we’re holding on to. They just want to live their lives. They’re going to do it their way.”

This idea resonated with me—a lot—when I thought about it within the context of nurturing the next great generation.

Being fully accepting of differences and unconstrained by old-fashioned career paths seem all part of the same new vision. And these changes seem to be happening naturally as a result of the guidance and wisdom we gave our children when we were young parents. We—and I mean ‘we’ in the larger sense meaning so many parents everywhere—taught our kids to treat everyone the same. We also encouraged them to choose the career that would allow them to do what they loved, even if that meant making less money. By the time our kids left the house as young adults, we’d largely completed our job. And through that parenting—ours and James’s alike (and yours)—the newest generation is already greater in many ways than any that came before.

James summed it up best when he said, “They have the freedom to live a different life.”

This doesn’t mean we grandparents can’t continue to play a strong supportive role. We can help lead a discussion about generational greatness. And we will always be the elder Maple trees who’s leaves nurture the seedlings. We can be there for them. But we have to be careful not to preach to them like we know everything, because we don’t. Tom Brokaw said he learned more from his grandkids than they’ve learned from him. Wise words.

I saw this principle on glorious display on a warm July day a few years ago on the shores of Lake Willoughby, a place I will continue to return to in my upcoming book. All of our grandkids and their cousins where down at the beach with their parents and everyone was buzzing with excitement because we knew that this was the day that my cousin’s son, William, would become engaged to his boyfriend, Brendon. The plan was that Brendon would take William out on their vintage wooden motorboat and pop the question. The grandkids made signs of congratulations that they could hold up when the boat returned to the shore, and sure enough, an hour later as the boat approached—William and Brendon beaming—the grandkids jumped up and down on the dock with their signs, shouting “Yay!” and “Congratulations!” and “We love you!”

Nobody on the beach that day had to explain that William and Brendon were different, that they were gay.

Because they are, in fact, no different than any of us. They are simply a young couple in love, one that is today happily married.

Before James and I parted ways in Zoom-land, I asked him for his #1 piece of wisdom for the next great generation. He instantly said, “You can survive anything. Life isn’t fair. Life is tough. Life is wonderful. It’s all those things, three dimensional. I wish I could have told myself that when I was 18. Just don’t worry, James. You will go through a lot of stuff, but you will survive, and that’s what I tell my grandkids.”

Our ancestors continue to shape who we are now, through genetics and remembrance. When James talked about survival all I could picture was the greatest wrestler of the 20th century, the indomitable Reginald Siki, languishing in a German prison camp, so hungry he lay still to conserve energy, yet he smiled as he looked at the caricature drawn of him and wrote the words I will say to my loved ones any time our multidimensional lives get tough: “Let’s keep going.”

Author’s note: Be sure to check out James’s Really! I’m a Grandparent Podcast. James had me on his show, even though I’m not a young grandpa these days (thank you, James!). Also, if you or someone you know has a grandpa story to tell, please reach out to me at ted [at symbol here] GoodGrandpa dot com. I’m writing the Good Grandpa book for Regalo Press which will be distributed by Simon & Schuster in mid-to-late 2025.

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STORIES

“You’re Boppy!” The Story of Becoming a Grandfather

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When my wife, Nancy, was due to give birth to our daughter, Abigail, we’d packed our bags for the hospital and were ready to go when the contractions started. I…

When my wife, Nancy, was due to give birth to our daughter, Abigail, we’d packed our bags for the hospital and were ready to go when the contractions started. I remember that feeling, the quickening of my heart, the excitement of heading into the experience as if it were a class four white water rapid, thinking I was ready but fearing I might not be – who could ever know?

This time, it was a call from Abigail that told me she was going into labor.

I’d just had a relaxing glass of Scotch and was watching TV. When I picked up the phone I expected a casual check-in call, but it was a different story. Abigail and her husband, Ryan, were at the hospital already. Contractions were steady. And because the baby was breach, there would be a C-section. In two hours. The rush of emotion and excitement all came back to me as if it were Abigail being born and not my grandson. I told Abigail I’d be driving down as soon as possible.

Nancy, at this time, was on a business trip, and I knew she’d be in a bit of a panic. I didn’t want her to feel badly for not being there, and was resolved to keep my calm and reassure her as well as my daughter that things were under control. Nothing, of course, is ever “under control.” When birth is involved, I knew from experience it was a joyous cavalcade of bodily fluids and wailing baby cries and slimy poop and the uncertainty of wondering if there would be the right number of fingers and toes, and the billion other concerns that overwhelm even the best prepared mom, dad, or grandparent. You take a deep breath, keep moving, and hope to God things will work out.

I slept fitfully between texts from Ryan and Nancy. At 2:30 am I received the text I had been hoping and praying for: Mother and baby are happy and healthy. His name was Henry. I sat on the edge of my bed and wept. Thank you, God, I said. Thank you.

I hit the road at 3:30am for New York City, guzzling hot coffee in the darkness and light rain on the Mass Pike, and arrived at New York Presbyterian hospital on the upper East Side around 8:00. Abigail’s hospital room was quiet when I entered, save for the tiny murmuring of a baby, my grandson. The floor to ceiling hospital curtain surrounding Abigail’s bed felt to me like the curtain in The Wizard of Oz, pulled back to reveal the old man feverishly tugging at levers, only now it was Abigail in the bed holding Henry, smiling up at me, Ryan grinning in a fatherly way beside them, and I was the old man.

Meeting your own child for the first time is amazing. Meeting your grandchild is similarly exhilarating, magical and joyous. And yet there’s something more to it, another layer.

The hard work of raising Abigail right, nurturing and loving her, making sure she grew up in a nice town with great schools. Sending her to the college of her choice (George Washington, not coincidentally in the same city where Ryan – her high school sweetheart – was attending Georgetown). Celebrating her wedding on a beautiful old farm in Vermont with friends and family there to support her. All of these things formed a kind of foundation for her life that she could then build upon. And even though I could not see all these things at that moment when I held Henry for the first time, I was aware of them and felt the love and effort of all that parenting as if it had been somehow condensed in time, right at the moment I saw this wonderful and handsome baby, Henry, my grandson.

Me with my first grandchild, Henry, hours after he was born.

I held him in the crook of my arm and made no effort to stop the tears from streaming down my face. I whispered to him as much as to myself, “Hi Henry.” He was so light and small. Deeply asleep. Content.

After I’d visited them for a while, I went back to Abigail’s apartment on West 74th street and slept for a few hours. When I called Abigail to say I was heading back to the hospital, she asked me to bring the diaper bag, and the Boppy — a large horseshoe shaped pillow women use when breastfeeding. Trekking across Central Park with a diaper bag and a Boppy is a singular experience that’s hard for me to describe. Part of me felt like I was a new dad, like this was just—quite literally—another walk in the park for me. I saw young parents with kids in strollers along the meandering verdant walkways, and they’d cast knowing glances at me with my Boppy as if it was a totem of my fatherhood.

I considered blurting out to strangers, “I’m not actually a new dad! The Boppy is for my grandson!” But I didn’t. I reveled in the illusion instead.

When I arrived at the hospital room with the Boppy, Ryan and Abigail giggled at the sight of six foot six tall me holding it, with its multicolored illustrations of giraffes and elephants. Ryan looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “Boppy. Maybe you’re Boppy.”

For months all my friends had asked me what I wanted my grandfather name to be. Grandpa? Pops? Gramps? I said I wasn’t sure, and didn’t know if it was actually up to me. When Ryan suggested that perhaps I was Boppy, it struck me that Henry and I had both been newly named at the same time. Both born into new lives, Henry launched into childhood, me ascending to newly minted grandfatherhood. I felt that my whole life was ahead of me.

That was ten years ago. What’s become clearer with each passing year is that my whole life was actually ahead of me—not an entirely new life of course—but a very different one, so different that I am not the same guy I was before.

In that long ago life when I was a parent, small things could make me angry, my emotional trigger ready to fire at dumb things like bad drivers. Having time to hold a baby grandchild in the quiet of the night and hear nothing but the sound of our breathing put the petty annoyances of life in perspective. Reading my grandchildren the same books we used to read our children, like Goodnight Moon and The Cat in the Hat, felt like rediscovering magic. I could use the word “joy” without irony. The often angry world still exists but somehow I’m floating above it. I’ve been admitted to the best club in the world, one so exclusive no amount of money can buy it. As you’ll see if you read my book (coming out in 2025 from Regalo Press), I’ve interviewed rich and famous grandpas, but most are regular Joes like me, and we are all on the same level playing field.

As Henry grew he was joined by a brother, then two cousins, both girls, and my name in time changed from Bobby to Grandpa Ted.

They could call me anything and I’d be happy with it, because this is the new Ted, not the old Ted, which is ironic given that I’m getting older. I’m not alone in this sentiment. Many grandfathers become deeply changed for the better, as if we’ve emerged from a chrysalis to become something freer, lighter, happier. We are the ones who walk across Central Park with a smile on our faces, carrying within us a newly found contentment. We’re the retired four-star generals sitting on the floor with their granddaughters playing with Barbies. We’re putting on our reading glasses to help find the missing LEGO piece, and while we may have grey hair (or, in my case, no hair) we are boys again.

It’s a new experience, yet it’s not all new. There are still diapers. But we all have our roles to play in this new landscape. When I’m with one of our grandbabies and a particularly pungent aroma fills the room, I’ve been known to say to my son or daughter, while making my exit, “I think someone needs changing.”

Author’s note: If you’re a grandpa, you are more than welcome to post a comment here to share your experience of the day your first grandchild was born. How did your life change?

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BUCKET O' WISDOM

From The Boys in the Boat to Head of the Charles, with Fred Schoch

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On August 14, 1936, rowing crews from six countries competed for the gold medal at the Olympic games in Berlin, Germany. Adolf Hitler was in the stands, cheering on his…

On August 14, 1936, rowing crews from six countries competed for the gold medal at the Olympic games in Berlin, Germany.

Adolf Hitler was in the stands, cheering on his team along with thousands crowding the stands at the Grunau Regatta Course. There were eight rowers and one coxswain per boat on the 2000-meter race, one oar per rower, with a photo finish that became legend as the American team took home the gold. The story of the team’s journey from their humble origins in Washington state to becoming heroes is brilliantly told by Daniel James Brown in his classic book, The Boys in the Boat. A move adaptation directed by George Clooney is coming out in December 2023.

But there is another story here that’s important to tell. One that spans generations that lived before 1936, and after, and will extend into the future.

The nine American rowers in the boat that day had an extra teammate, an alternate ready to replace anyone injured or ill prior to competition. His name was Delos “Dutch” Schoch (according to family lore, at one point when Dutch was filming the team, he was standing in the way of Hitler’s view and was summarily asked to move; when I learned this it made me wish a lot more men had stood in Hitler’s way in 1936).

Fred’s dad, Dutch Schoch.

 

After serving in the navy in WWII, Dutch became head rowing Coach at Princeton. The love of rowing was passed on to Dutch’s son, Fred Schoch, who’s played a leading role in building one of the great sports competitions in the world today, the Head of the Charles Regatta held yearly in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

I’m talking with lots of grandpas these days as I conduct research for my book, The Good Grandpa Project, and when I found out Fred is a grandpa, I knew I had to meet up with him over coffee.

I wanted to know how his upbringing has guided him through life, and what lessons he’s learned. And I sought to ask him the question I’m asking of all grandpas: what is the #1 piece of wisdom that will help today’s kids become the next great generation?

The following are some highlights from our conversation:

How did your upbringing shape who you’ve become?

My dad was this heroic Hemingwayesque figure. Big as I am, burly. A revered coach. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke you really paid attention. I grew up in this kind of storybook town of Princeton [New Jersey], back in the 50s. Princeton was a sleepy little town of probably 30,000 people back then. But we used to go to the basketball games and see Bill Bradley play. I think I was shaped by not only my father, but the impressive young oarsmen at Princeton. As I got bigger, I got to go on trips with them and the kids would playfully throw me up in the luggage rack of the charter bus when we went to New Haven. I started as a coxswain when I was 10 years old and even steered one of my father’s crews in the 1960 Olympic Trials in Syracuse, New York. So, I grew up around them and could be a part of the workouts. And later, when I got big enough, I started rowing with them.

What do you remember about your dad?

One of the fondest memories I have of my dad was on wintery Sunday afternoons; we had an open Willy’s jeep, and we lived on 15 acres with lots of oak trees and we burned a fire all winter in our prerevolutionary farmhouse. We’d go deep back into the woods, and we’d cut fallen trees. We didn’t have to say a lot. But I was the splitter and he was running the heavy Sears and Roebuck chainsaw. And so, I learned how to split logs and actually wrote a poem to my son, Willard, about that experience, the father/son relationship. And I gave it to him for his birthday probably 10 years ago. Your relationship with your kids is so important. I took my youngest son to the airport recently and he said, “Dad, I’m really glad you gave me a ride because it’s more than that. It’s symbolic. I want you to know how important you are and how much I want you to be in my life.” Wow.

Did you have a chance to know your grandfathers?

Both of my grandfathers died in their 50s before I was born, and my dad died of a coronary at 56. There is a big hole in my history in terms of knowing my grandparents, and I want to pass on as much as I can to my grandchildren. You begin to think about the uncertainty of our own lives when you hit 70. As the saying goes, “The lights can go out at any time.” Having time together is important. That’s why I’ve just made a commitment to retire and start consulting part time.

When you think of a creating a lasting legacy for your grandkids, what things come to mind?

I think it’s important to pass on the basic building blocks of being a good human being and being honest. A tireless work ethic was something both my parents passed on to me. As a late bloomer I had struggles, you know, but I stuck with it and came out the other side academically, and even started my career as a secondary school English teacher. It seemed like it was never going to happen, but it did. While I didn’t know my grandfathers, I’m sure they had to work hard for what they achieved. I think a sense of humility is so important in life and to respect other people. I want to make sure they’re grounded. And I think that’s something that I can pass on that I received from my father.

What lessons are there in sports for our grandkids?

Rowing has given me so much because there’s no hiding in this grueling team sport. There’s no superstars. It’s like the total teamwork demonstrated by The Boys in the Boat. I have a recent example. An aspiring rower applying to colleges told me he had achieved a certain score on an indoor rowing machine used to test fitness, and I found out later he lied to me. It’s B.S. I mean, he lied to me but he’s lying to himself. He’s afraid. I believe in redemption, but he’s going to have to turn it around. A friend of mine is a coach at Marietta College who’s a philosophy major and he talks about an analogy of a lamp; the shadow outside of the lamp shade is where you have to go as an athlete, into that pain cave. When you’re competing it can really, really hurt. You have to you be able to peer into that darkness and not be afraid to go there. You have to prepare yourself mentally to embrace the unknown. It’s true in all sports. Some people take shortcuts. And some people refuse to take shortcuts — the successful ones. It’s about loyalty to your teammates and being honest with them and yourself.

What’s the #1 thing?

In life, you’re going to have so many ups and downs. Trust who you are and that you’re going to figure it out. It’s going to be okay. Just be resilient and keep marching forward. In grad school, I kept a piece of paper taped to my bulletin board with a saying from the German poet Goethe that read “work and despair not.” That pithy aphorism kept me going many late nights. I hope my grandchildren will absorb some of my wisdom and benefit from my experience.

My thoughts on Fred’s story: It brings to mind the idea that all of us are living history. From one generation to the next there is a bond that outlasts time, with evergreen lessons we can build on and shape into our own, and give again. And sometimes it’s the really simple things, like cutting wood in a forest—without talking—that says how much we love our children.

What are activities that you do with your grandkids that they will remember? Please post your comments to join the conversation. 

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FROM THE PUBLISHER

Calling All Grandpas!

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Getting a book deal is exciting. Now comes the hard part — writing a good book. Writing is usually considered a solo endeavor, but in the case of Good Grandpa…

Getting a book deal is exciting. Now comes the hard part — writing a good book.

Writing is usually considered a solo endeavor, but in the case of Good Grandpa I know I can’t do this alone. I will be traveling around the U.S. and other countries to meet with grandpas from different backgrounds and cultures. I’m hunting for fascinating life stories that have powerful lessons built into them; unique cultural differences that make grandparenting experiences different from my own. And, most of all, finding anything that shines a light on the kind of wisdom that only comes with advancing years.

Instagram is populated with “influencers,” most often young and beautiful people hawking luxury handbags. I have nothing against youth and fashion. But I think it’s time for more influencers who are in their 60s to 90s and beyond.

Let’s influence people to bring about major societal changes that make the world a better place. And have fun along the way.

If you know of a grandpa with a story to tell and wisdom to share, here’s my email: [email protected]. I will do my best to respond to every email I receive.

Love to all,

Ted

P.S. Some people have asked me, “What about the grandmas?” I value grandmas equally, and I would not be half the man I am without my wife of 38 years. But I happen to be a grandpa so I can write from experience. A Good Grandma book would be great, written most authentically by a grandma.

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STORIES

The Good Grandpa Tom Brokaw Interview

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Starting a blog is a bit like talking in a room by yourself. Family members join the conversation over time. Then friends. Then friends of friends. Then, if we are…

Starting a blog is a bit like talking in a room by yourself. Family members join the conversation over time. Then friends. Then friends of friends. Then, if we are very lucky, the press takes notice and things kick into higher gear. That press moment for Good Grandpa happened in March of this year when the New York Times featured the blog in their story, Learning to Become a Better Grandfather. Within a few weeks I signed on with a literary agent in New York, and now I have a book deal with a great publisher.

As I enter the next phase of Good Grandpa, my aim is to remain true to my mission of nurturing the next great generation.

I’ve believed from the get-go that while my parents’ generation was indeed great, if we as grandparents step it up we can make our grandkids’ generation the greatest of all time.

My plan is to harvest the collective wisdom of grandpas (and our loving grandma partners) around the world from a range of cultures, sharing the best of what I learn along the way. This is a journey, and I can’t do it alone. I will really need help from other grandparents and their families here in the U.S. and in other countries. If you know a grandpa with amazing life experiences and a great story to share, please reach out to me at [email protected].

To kick off the book project, I’m embarking on a series of interviews with grandpas. Some will be famous. Others, like me, will simply bring their own perspective. But we are all part of the same unofficial club of grandfathers.

Since I’ve talked about the greatest generation, there was one man I wanted to interview first: Tom Brokaw, author of The Greatest Generation.

In addition to being a very good grandpa, Tom has a few other modest accomplishments in his bio:  He’s a legendary newsman who anchored the NBC Nightly News for decades. He’s also the recipient of numerous awards and honors including two Peabody Awards, two Emmys, the Presidential Medal of Freedom, and the French Legion of Honor.

In all the interviews I conduct over the next year I will ask a series of questions — and the most important of all, that #1 thing that grandpas want the next generation to know.

This is partly an homage to the movie City Slickers, starring Billy Crystal—who, by the way—is a grandpa. Can we make our future better by sharing the best nuggets of wisdom from grandpas everywhere? I’m going to find out.

Here is my interview with Tom. Please take a moment to share your own thoughts on Tom’s answers by posting a comment.

Tom, you’ve learned a lot in your long and distinguished career. As a dad and grandpa, are there lessons for grandkids you’d like to share based on your experiences?
As I often say, I think I learn more from my grandkids than they learn from me.

In your books you’ve written eloquently about the greatest generation. How can we as grandfathers help to nurture our grandkids so they have a chance to become the greatest generation of all?
Tell them every day they’ll encounter challenges. And the test will be how they learn from each experience.

Our parents were forged by the hardships of the great depression and fighting WWII. Is it possible for our grandkids to become the greatest of all time in the absence of an existential crisis that compels them to become all they can be?
Every passage of time has an opportunity for knowledge. As the world becomes more crowded mankind has an obligation to adapt to the changes – not just let the changes overwhelm us.

In your memoirs you write about your upbringing in South Dakota with very hardworking parents and grandparents. When you think about your grandparents today, what stands out?
My grandparents were the “can do” generation. Almost every chore required hands on efforts. Nothing was automatic. They were great role models, with little money, but their values were expressed through love, affection, and grandma’s donuts!

Over time you’ve evolved from being a boy, to a dad, to a grandpa. What’s an insight you can share about what you’ve learned along the way?
I grew as one of three boys and then became the grandfather of three girls. I quickly learned if given a chance the girls could hang with the boys. My neighbor was a classic tomboy who could outrun all the local boys and
skate much faster.

Do you have a sense of what your grandfather, Red, learned from your kids? Or what they learned from him?
My kids were bedazzled by Grandpa Red’s hands-on skills. One snowy Christmas we didn’t have a sled, so he took his grandkids to his workshop and showed them how to make one out of spare lumber. It became the fastest sled on the hill.

As a cancer survivor, you’ve seen your share of life challenges. How has your family helped you find strength and longevity?
I have a difficult cancer and my granddaughters look after me without requests.

What is the #1 thing? The absolutely most important piece of wisdom you want to share with the next generation?
That life is not a key on autopilot. You have to earn every move.

What’s an example of something you have to earn?
The affection of your kids.

My thoughts on Tom’s answers: When Tom responded to the #1 thing question by saying “You have to earn every move,” I thought he might have meant “learn” every move and questioned him on that. The interview was via email and he responded emphatically in all caps: YES, EARN. Adding, as an example, that even the affection of our kids must be earned. I thought this very revealing and a testament to his upbringing. When you read his memoirs, it’s clear that nothing was ever handed to him. His family was part of an incredibly hard working South Dakota family culture. To say that he was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth would be a huge understatement. Tom worked his way up the professional ladder to the pinnacle of his profession, and no matter what he achieved he kept at it, always earning the next step up in his life. Nothing can be taken for granted, even the affection of his kids and grandkids. Despite the challenges of old age, Tom continues to work hard at earning every single thing. This is a philosophy and way of life we can all take to heart as we go about our lives day to day.

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BUCKET O' WISDOM

A Tale of Two Pilots (and the Generational Value of Longevity).

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It was an early morning in July 1918, cloudy with a strong wind blowing as the American pilot flew his Nieuport 28 biplane over Chamery, a hamlet of Coulonges-en-Tardenois not…

It was an early morning in July 1918, cloudy with a strong wind blowing as the American pilot flew his Nieuport 28 biplane over Chamery, a hamlet of Coulonges-en-Tardenois not far from the front lines. His mission:  Scout out and shoot down German reconnaissance. The fields of France were lush and green below, expanding out to the horizon where a glimmer of sun shone through the clouds, with dark trenches coiled through the fields like venomous snakes.

The roar of the planes behind him was his first sign of trouble.

He turned with alarm to see three Fokker Chasse planes bearing down on him from above. He yanked the stick hard to maneuver and climb into a more favorable fighting position, hearing the rattling bursts of machine gun fire growing nearer. It was too late. Within seconds, he was shot twice in the back of the head. His plane turned over on its back and plunged to Earth.

Back home on Long Island, the young man’s father—former President Theodore Roosevelt—mourned deeply from afar. Roosevelt put on a brave face for the press, but many believed he was so heartbroken he never recovered, and died barely a year after his favorite son, Quentin.

In the same French skies that year was another American pilot, Lieutenant Frederick L. Fish. The son of a Vermont State Supreme Court justice, Fred was tall, with short-cut sandy brown hair, a long face with an aquiline nose and clear grey-blue eyes. As he flew, Fred looked down at the battle below, a muddy moonscape of devastation, trenches separated by undulating piles and pits from shell blasts, shattered tree trunks pointing at twisted angles.

Fred pulled the trigger. But instead of firing a machine gun, he was snapping the shutter of a camera mounted to his plane, photographing enemy positions to provide intelligence to army headquarters. Fred was smart. Resourceful. Brave. Lucky as hell.

Fred was also my grandfather.

After the war, Fred Fish became a successful salesman, and in middle age became a Colonel in the Air Force in WWII to help organize allied resources for the D-Day landings.

I got to know Gramp very well, thankfully, when I was a teenager working for him to help manage and clean his rental cottages on our family farm along the shores of Lake Willoughby in Vermont’s remote Northeast Kingdom. The five-mile-long lake was formed when a glacier bore down from the North, cutting a deep trough in the land and splitting one big mountain in two—Mt. Pisgah and Mt. Hor—with steep rock cliffs that slope down to the deep lake waters. The family’s rental cottages, all painted red with white trim, lined a sandy beach and hugged the banks of a brook that flowed from Westmore mountain.

Even then, in the 1970s, Gramp had a commanding presence.

Though bent with age, he was still tall at six foot two, and was quite comfortable giving orders and seeing that they were obeyed without question. He was usually dressed head to toe in khaki, including a cap, and would fix me with his clear eyes and tell me to do this (empty buckets of sewage out of a septic well) or that (rake the beach). Or the Sisyphean task of cleaning the cottages in-between rentals using an upright vacuum that had terrible suction. “You missed a spot!”

I can picture him now vividly as he kicked back at the end of a long day, drinking a Miller High Life in the yard behind the Farmhouse. “Teddy,” he’d say, “there’s no substitute for hard work.”

Gramp lived into his mid-eighties, always active and full of life. He sang hymns in Church, delighting everyone with his vibrant baritone voice. Often down at the beach he’d break into yet another chorus of his favorite song, The Foggy Foggy Dew.

Why does the fact that Gramp survived two wars and lived a long life matter? Why did it matter to him, and—for the purposes of this story—why did it matter to me, my brothers and cousins? Just as important, why did his very nature as a grandfather matter to us, complete with his many tales of adventure and shared wisdom?

It turns out it matters a lot. Not just in the case of my Gramp, but for all grandpas and our loved ones here in America and around the world. The reasons are rooted in the history of humanity itself.

Early humans lived lives that Thomas Hobbes best described as “Solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.”

Fossil records indicate that our very earliest ancestors 30,000 years ago lived to about the age of 30. Which meant very few lived long enough to become grandparents. Scientists aren’t sure why Upper Paleolithic Europeans started to live longer into relatively old age, but they surmise that the changes brought about by this longevity had a profound impact on evolution.

When more grandparents came on the scene, things started to change for the better.

“Grandparents,” an article in Scientific American informs us, “contribute economic and social resources to their descendants, increasing both the number of offspring their children can have and the survivorship of their grandchildren.” In other words, having grandpa and grandma hanging out in the cave meant they were there to help raise the kids and dole out essential knowledge. Grandparents could teach, from experience, how to plant seeds to get the best crops. Or a thousand other things that helped the family survive and thrive.

Gramp’s habit of telling stories ladled with wisdom is likely a key reason why several of my four older brothers survived into adulthood.

Here’s one story out of many that shows how Gramp made a difference.

It was Easter, 1969, a lovely spring day in Lexington, Massachusetts, when my family—mom, dad and brothers—loaded into the station wagon and headed over to my grandparents’ house across town for the traditional late afternoon feast of ham, potatoes, peas, pies and handfuls of chocolate Easter eggs.

I was 10 at the time, while my eldest brother, Calvin, was twenty-one, and Charlie, nineteen. Both draft age for Vietnam. Photos taken that day seem inked in pastel hues, all of us in jackets and ties, young and pink-faced.

The war was not far away. Every night we watched Walter Cronkite on the evening news and there was always a tally of the men who had died in Vietnam. My parents were very much against the war and were not shy about saying so. Dad was no stranger to war, having been divebombed by kamikazes at the battle of Okinawa. He often said war was the stupidest thing he’d ever seen, and Vietnam only confirmed his beliefs. He did his part to serve his country but suffered lifelong PTSD. I once witnessed my mom give him food in a red dish, and when he saw the color red he clenched his teeth and screamed, “Blood!”

Having seen dad’s post-war stress up close, Calvin and Charlie were nervous about the draft; there was a lot of nail biting going on.

Calvin was still a bit on the fence, though, about whether he’d go to Vietnam if his draft number came up. He’d been in ROTC and was better prepared than most of his peers to fight. Both my parents hated Richard Nixon. My Gramp and Gram, however, were lifelong Republicans through and through. Even if Nixon wasn’t perfect, they would always support whoever led the Grand Old Party.

After we’d gorged ourselves on Gram’s multi-course dinner, we retired to the living room. Somehow the topic of Vietnam came up. My grandparents never said a word about Vietnam, which is why what Gramp said that day was so astonishing.

Gramp held court in his chair, center stage, while we young men sat nearby in respectful silence. “Well, boys,” Gramp said, “when I went to war the first time, in World War I, they told us it was the war to end all wars. Then came World War II don’t you know, and we had to go back and fight another one. Then there was Korea. And now there’s Vietnam.”

Here Gramp gestured one long hand in the air for emphasis, “All I can tell you is, it’s always the old men who start wars, and it’s the young men who are sent off to fight them.”

None of us said a word in response, but heads nodded. We knew exactly what Gramp’s opinion of Vietnam was without him ever having to be explicit or betray his Republican principles. None of my brothers chose to fight in Vietnam.

Only a man who’d flown above the trenches in France, then returned to Europe to fight again not too long after, and only a man who loved his grandsons more than anything, had the moral credence, love and wisdom required to tell us what he did. My brothers and I lived on to have children and grandchildren of our own.

What are lessons that I and other grandparents can impart to help nourish the next great generation? What role does wisdom play in survival and happiness?

In future posts, I’ll offer up some ideas. Not only mine, but gems of wisdom I’ve heard from other grandparents. If you have suggestions or would like to write a guest post, drop me a line at [email protected].

Gramp in WWI

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STORIES

Grandparenting Advice from the Boat Lady

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In the process of hunting for ways to navigate grandfatherhood, I sought out the advice of my oldest living relative, Aunt Lois, my late mother’s sister. Lois was 95 at…

In the process of hunting for ways to navigate grandfatherhood, I sought out the advice of my oldest living relative, Aunt Lois, my late mother’s sister.

Lois was 95 at the time, frail but sharp as a tack. In her long career Lois was a much-loved music teacher and an accomplished cellist. During WWII she became a pilot to help ferry mail across the United States.

Lois delivering mail in WWII

 

Like my mom, Lois had a sharp, acerbic wit. She and my mom would go for daily dunks in Lake Willoughby wearing matching bathing caps festooned with brightly colored rubber flowers. They’d chat while treading water.

The other thing Lois and my mom had in common was a deep love for their grandchildren. The grandpas I knew loved their grandkids just as much as the grandmas, but it was the grandmas who actually said so. Grandpas showed their love in other ways, like telling stories or simply working with us.

Lois had 6 grandchildren and, thanks to her longevity, lived to enjoy her 5 great-grandchildren as well. Surely, I thought, Lois could speak volumes about how I could be a good grandpa.

I caught up with Lois one day down at the Willoughby beach after her daily dunk, years after my mom had passed. Lois at 95 was like a dry vine that had been bundled into a ball, arms and legs spindly, jaggy fingers twisted in odd directions by arthritis. She could walk with a cane or with a loved one holding her arm, guiding her ship to dock with a thunk into the nearest chair. On the day I quizzed her, she was bundled in a sweater in the late August cool. She wore fabulous pink Jackie Onassis-style big-framed sunglasses.

“Lois, any advice on how I can be a good grandpa?” I asked.

Lois looked thoughtful for a moment, staring out at the lake and the waves swooshing onto the shore. Then she raised one bony finger and pronounced, “Be there for them.”

I waited for her to continue. I figured her statement was merely a preamble to a longer, more eloquent oration. But no, that was it. And the more I thought about it, the more I knew she was right. If she had spoken for a whole day, or a year, she could not have imparted better advice. Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg address was a brief 272 words, yet positively verbose by Lois’ standards. Great ideas are a lot like acorns. All the DNA of the tree is there and highly compact. When planted and nourished, the acorn thrives into a massive multi-branched oak tree.

In the case of what Lois had told me, that tree had sprawling branches that hugged and protected all those she loved most.

Lois lived those words. Even up until the last year of her long life, when any movement at all caused her pain, she’d be there for us and her many grand and great grandchildren in myriad ways. Every year on the 4th of July, Lois was the “boat lady” for our annual celebrations at the beach. Around dusk the wind would die down and leave the lake flat as a mirror, and in its reflection the wild roses of dusk bloomed as the sun slowly set. We’d light the bonfire as the whole family gathered around, talking and laughing, and Lois would sit at the picnic table and teach the bustling kids how to fold newspapers into paper boats.

Just as the sun was leaving the sky and the stars began to peek out, adults helped the kids put a match to their boats and launch them onto the water; the shimmering flames of a dozen ships floated slowly out onto the lake, the kids cheering theirs on; the winner would be the last boat still burning.

In her younger days, Lois would stand on the dock and play taps on her bugle. At 95, she sat in her chair and sang along with us around the bonfire, withered with time but still a young mother inside.

Last year Lois passed away quietly in bed. The night before she died, she excitedly told my cousins that she had a busy day ahead of her. She was going to see Ray (her late husband), her sister, mother and father. There was so much to look forward to.

This summer and for all summers to come, the paper boats will still flame and glitter along the shores of the lake at dusk. There’s some of Lois in every fold of those boats, and in every squeal of excitement as the kids set their boats aflame and watch them float and sputter.

It makes me very happy to know that Lois provided me with the best possible advice, and to realize—through my discussions with dozens of grandparents—that there are as many ways to be there for grandkids as there are leaves in a forest.

In my own grandpa life, I’ve found that being there for them can be a chance to teach lessons that will last a lifetime.

I’ve fine-tuned the art of the pillow fight by applying just the right amount of power to each swing of the pillow; enough to score a definitive cushy punch yet still harmless.

There are also opportunities for learning.  On a recent weekend morning, my grandkids decided to make a lemonade stand and make enough money to help pay for a video game (their elusive Holy Grail). When they brought it up, I said, “Ok, that’s a great idea. But you should also take into account your cost of goods so you can determine how much profit you’ll make per cup of lemonade sold.”

Their reply: “What?”

This led to a robust discussion, complete with a math exercise, that delved into the cost of the lemonade mix and plastic cups, how much they would charge per cup, and how much they’d ultimately make in profit after subtracting their cost of goods. Over the course of a day they raked in a sizable amount of money at a decent profit.

The lemonade stand, staffed by future entrepreneurs.

My son-in-law added a wonderful touch: half the proceeds will be donated to the local fire department.

From my grandkids’ perspective, this was all magic. It felt to them like pulling money out of thin air. Instead of begging their parents to buy them a video game, they showed entrepreneurial spirit and took control of their finances. And they’re not even 10 years old yet.

Being there for the grandkids helps shape them into who they can become in the future, the best version of themselves. They might be making paper boats today, and building real boats in adulthood, or founding a new beverage company. And hopefully giving a percentage of their profits to charity. What a wonderful life lesson for them. And a total blast for us.

When I talk about nurturing the next great generation, this is what I mean. If we can help raise a generation of young people who know how to found and run profitable businesses—and give proceeds to charitable causes—we can change the world.

But let’s not forget the pillow fights. My grandkids are getting bigger by the week and our battles are becoming truly epic. I will show no mercy.

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