Dear Oliver – It Takes a Village
When you were just over a year old, you and your parents moved in with grandma and me while your new house was being remodeled. After four months, two weeks before Christmas, the house was finished and you moved back home. When you first moved in with us, it felt crowded and uncomfortable. But as the weeks wore on, I came to enjoy having you and your parents around. All of us living under one roof is a family way of life that must be thousands of years old, dating back to times when people lived in wooded huts and in hillside caves.
It is good for children to be surrounded by parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins who help shoulder responsibilities, burdens, and joys of our shared lives. Since parents don’t instinctively know everything about raising a child, they tend to seek advice from doctors, nurses, and midwives. But in the past, it was family that stepped in, grandparents, aunts and uncles, people who learned from their elders. It is known as generational knowledge—the wisdom, skills, and cultural practices passed down from older to younger generations through observation, explicit teaching, and shared experiences. It is knowledge that comes from the village.
It has been a privilege to have a small part in your learning to walk, talk, and ride your little 4-wheeled push-bike. I enjoyed our stroller walks to watch traffic up on Covington Highway, the afternoons kicking up leaves in the backyard, and the evenings playing in front of the fireplace in our living room. Most days, your mom or dad took you to daycare while grandma and I enjoyed picking you up, usually a little early to give you time to play outside. When you didn’t feel well, we all took turns holding you, although it was your mom that woke up to cuddle you in the middle of the night. My own bedtime came earlier as I tried to overcome the pleasant sense of exhaustion that enveloped me after you were asleep.
Having you around also caused me to reflect on all that I missed with my other grandchildren who live in far-off cities. And it made me wonder how much of my own childhood was shaped by people other than my parents. Grandma Porter escorted me on bus rides downtown, Grandpa and Grandma Malone took me on aimless car rides around town, Uncle Norman taught me how to replace the head gasket on my ’56 Chevy, and Aunt Zola and Uncle Louie allowed us to spend weekends at their cabin on Lake Tarpon.
You have your own village and are building similar memories right now. You are being shaped by visits to see Grandpa Jimmy and Grandma Jenise in Blakely, Georgia where you ride the tractor and play with your cousin Whitaker. You travel to Woodstock to see your friend Henry. You will make friends in your new neighborhood. And grandma and I will be right beside you. All of us are happy to be part of your village.
Dear Oliver – The Spoken Word (finally)
At 16 months of age, you have finally started speaking. For the past few months, you have been vocally active at a high volume—seeming to like the way your voice echoes in the hallway. We have been reading to you for months, and you have learned to say car (“caw”), tried to say truck, and when I asked, “Where is the cat?” in an open book, you placed your finger on it without hesitation. I can’t say you were talking, but you were darned close.
You were also growing visibly frustrated at not being able to make yourself understood, especially at mealtimes. I have been looking forward to understanding you better – your likes and dislikes, aches and pains, what makes you happy or sad, afraid or tired. Words are becoming more important to both of us.
I love words. Grandma and I play word puzzles on our phones every day. And anyone who knows me knows I like to write. There is just something about the creative process that I find satisfying—finding the right word, the perfect turn of phrase, the rhythm of the story.
In my parent’s generation, people wrote letters to each other. Lovers penned heartfelt missives, soldiers wrote letters from the frontlines, and spies used letters to send coded messages. These days, we prefer to generate posts, texts, and emails that are brief, impulsive, and superficial.
One of the most moving letters I ever heard was written during the American Civil War by Major Sullivan Ballou on July 14, 1861. Major Ballou’s letter reads like poetry: “But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladdest days and in the darkest nights, … and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath, as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.”
Tragically, Sullivan Ballou was killed at the First Battle of Bull Run, just a week after he wrote his letter. But his words are still an inspiration more than 160 years later. I wish I could write as well as Sullivan Ballou and have my words inspire someone a hundred years after I’m gone.
But today, it is your words that interest me. After months of pointing very deliberately at nothing in particular and verbalizing sounds that may or may not have sounded like car or dog or dad, you have begun to purposefully and in context repeat words like bye-bye, outside, all done, ball, and (most telling) no no no. You have also begun to appreciate the written word when you pull books from your bookshelf and turn pages by yourself.
English poet John Dryden said, “Words are but pictures of our thoughts.” I look forward to hearing your thoughts. And I hope you learn to love words as much as I do.
Dear Oliver – The learning curve of life
October 2025
I sure enjoy watching you learn how to be a 15-month-old person, and I see why we call people your age toddlers. That’s how you look with your stiff-legged, flat-footed shuffle. You can move pretty fast when you want to. But you fall down frequently—usually on your diaper padded behind but sometimes as a faceplant resulting in lumps and bruises. Your language has shifted from grunts and pointing into a more melodic and sing-song cadence with a few “words” sprinkled into your stream of consciousness. Last night, you surprised us all when you repeated the word “outside” when we asked the dogs if they needed to go there. You love playing in the back yard.
You and I are on the learning curve of life. The problem is, we’re at opposite ends of the curve. Your learning is speeding up. Mine is slowing down. You’re learning to use crayons. I forgot why I walked into the room. You’re learning to walk and talk. I’m forgetting people’s names before we finish our conversation.
I recently watched you on video learning how to color at school as you watch older kids. I helped teach you to sit in your miniature rocking chair so you could snack and watch TV. And you learned to walk holding a cookie in each hand all by yourself—a sort of innate talent.
As for me, I’m still learning, too. I earned a master’s degree from the University of Georgia at the age of 60, self-published a novel at age 63, learned to drive a mule wagon and wrote a book about it at 66, and published a memoir at 70. Now, at 75, I’m learning about how toddlers like you develop.
You are participating in several types of learning: Visual learning (watch and learn), Physical learning (try and fail), Verbal learning (don’t touch), and Reflection (not sure this one applies, yet). You seem to be advancing nicely.
When I recently asked you to place your sippy cup on the table rather than the floor, you did. When I asked you to hand me an empty Cheetos bag off the floor, you did. (Did I say Cheetos? I meant to say Healthy Bites). After watching the dog carry a large, red, rubber ball in her mouth, you did the same thing with no hands. (It was hilarious, but I’m not sure I’ll mention that to your mom). As the celebrated Spanish author Miguel de Cervantes wrote in his classic work Don Quixote in the early 1600s, “It’s good to live and learn.”