Keep grinding…

Keep grinding…

Mom sent a package from Chicago for the kids, filled with the usual odds and ends. But tucked inside was a small item wrapped in red paper and white ribbon. She confirmed over text that it was actually meant for me. It had some weight to it, and I had no idea what it could possibly be. Normally, I’m annoyingly good at guessing—at least according to my wife, Teri.

Over 25 years ago, I gave my dad this pepper grinder. It was the only one he never managed to wear out. Years later, I received the newer model as a wedding gift, but it didn’t measure up in a few key ways—the most egregious being that mine had a big letter “P” on the door, as if anyone is out here grinding salt for that fresh-cracked salt flavor. My dad would jokingly brag about his superior grinder whenever he had the chance. It became a running joke that it was the only thing I wanted in their will.

My dad passed away before his own father and never got the chance to fully appreciate how powerful a small, meaningful item in a box can be.

But Mom did. She sent the box for him.

Thanks, Mom. I’ll keep grinding.