Glen Kanwit

“You Glen?” 

“Yes, I am.” 

The man standing in front of me on our front porch on a hot summer July day in rural Virginia was a Western Union deliveryman. He was dressed in a uniform and was wearing a hat with a badge that said Western Union. To my 12-year-old eyes, he looked very official. 

“I have a telegram for you.” He handed me an envelope, turned around and walked away. 

I looked at the envelope. I could see my name and address through the transparent part.  I had never received anything so exotic  in my life. 

The telegram was dated July 27, 1955: my birthday. The text was a printed strip of paper that had been cut and glued to the body of the telegram.  

“Grammy and I wish you a very happy birthday.  Love, C Daddy” 

The telegram was from my grandfather, who lived in Evanston Illinois. He had used my nicknames for my grandmother and him.  

I was named after my grandfather. For the first nine months of my life, I lived in Evanston with my mom while my dad was in the South Pacific in the Navy.  As far as I knew, C Daddy was my father. I had a strong bond to him but hardly ever saw him because we lived far away. I came to visit him for a week one summer. He was busy with his job. I asked him to take me to a baseball game at Wrigley Field, and he sent me with his driver. I asked to go to the Field Museum. He sent me with a note to the curator of the museum, who took me around. 

I showed the telegram to my parents and siblings. My brother and sister were jealous, exactly the effect I had been hoping for.  

Eventually, I put the telegram away. My life went on. I went to college, law school, moved to Chicago, got married, had kids and a career. I didn’t get to share much of it with C Daddy, because he died just after I finished law school.  

Some years after I retired, I was cleaning out the accumulated junk of over 50 years in Chicago. There were baseball scorecards, matchbooks, letters, vacation souvenirs, pictures.  

And then I was holding the telegram.   

The hot July day in 1955 came back to me like it was yesterday. I was 12 years old again. 

I will never see another Western Union deliveryman.  I will never get another telegram. 

I’m ok with that. Because on that July day, my grandfather, who was maybe the most important person in the world to me, showed me he was thinking of me and that he loved me.