A “LEGACY LETTER”

SEPTEMBER 29, 2025 – I’d planned to return home today, leaving at around 2:00 to arrive home around the time our almost 10-year-old granddaughter finishes her weekly real-time, online art class. My wife signed her up for the classes, and we’ve developed the Monday routine of picking her up from school, taking her to our house, where we indulge her with a snack of all the fresh strawberries and raspberries she can eat while she draws on her own and chit-chats with us before the online class begins. After the class, she draws more on her own and humors us with her insights and observations until a simple supper. Often her dad joins us after taking her mom to work. By 8:00 or so, it’s time for our son and granddaughter to take their leave. “I love you, Grandma! I love you Grandpa!” she calls out as she hops into the back of the car. Thus concludes our weekly “Illiana fix.”

These are precious times for all of us. Before we know it, the 10-year-old will be a teenager, and as fast as that will have occurred, she’ll be graduating from high school, attending the Rhode Island School of Design (for instance), and moving on with her life as a high-falutin graphic designer—or maybe not; all we wish for her is happiness, fulfillment, and contributing to the common good. As for us, her grandparents . . . who knows. At our stage of the game, every day is a delicate gift.

And so this morning I agonized when I saw the glorious sunshine streaming through the woods to the east. Another picture perfect day was taking shape, with the forecast of temps in the mid-70s F, barely a stir of the air, and lots of sunshine. I had a choice—stay at the Red Cabin to continue work on my pergola project, taking full advantage of the weather, or work like crazy to sort out the lumber for the next phase of the project, take measurements, load the wood into my car (back seats down, of course)—along with a boatload of tools, paint and other accessories, and leave in a mad dash by 2:00 . . . or 3:00 (perhaps ?). I’d then spend Tuesday through Thursday cutting, prepping and painting all those pieces . . . in the garage, the driveway, the backyard . . . so I could load them back up for the return trip to the Red Cabin on Friday.

As I weighed my options, the round-trip drive—six hours, plus loading and unloading, then reloading and re-unloading; at least seven hours in all—tipped the scale in favor of staying. This would not be an easy decision, however. What could be more important than time spent with Illiana, no matter how routine the occasion? On the other hand, the days are getting shorter, and soon the ideal weather for painting and assembly of the “Grand Staircases” of the pergola platform will yield to much less accommodating weather.

I then made a deal with myself. I could stay—without second guessing my choice—if I took time to write Illiana a “legacy letter”; that is, if I imparted my thoughts to her not necessarily for the present but for the future. The intended impression wouldn’t be guaranteed; the letter might get lost before it’s even tendered to her, or if not, maybe she herself will lose it—and forget altogether, its content. Or for that matter, perhaps the world and her life within it will become such a whirlwind that memories of her Grandpa Nilsson will dissolve into the mist of time, just as my pergola succumbs to the elements and the most powerful life forms on earth: micro-organisms.

But one thing is certain: If the letter isn’t written, it will never be read. And so it is written and reproduced here:

Dear Illiana,

Have you ever wanted to be in two places at once: Going to a friend’s house to play, for example, but also staying at home to try out a new set of colored pencils and drawing paper? Today I very much wanted to be in two places at once—at the cabin to take advantage of gorgeous weather and work on my building project but also, I wanted to be at home to spend time with you after your art class.

After weighing my choices—for much of the morning, mind you—I decided to stay up at the lake. It was not an easy decision. As you know—I certainly hope so; when you appear after an absence of several days, don’t I always greet you with, “Illiana, sweetheart! My how I’ve missed you!”? It’s so very true! I love your company; your smile, your faces, your joking around, but also, your dedication to your drawing, your courtesies, your thoughtfulness, your questions, your constant creativity, your story-telling, and your remarkable insights into the human condition. In a word, Illiana, you are a delight—a wonderful reminder that however troubled the outside world might be or even the world closer to home, you bring great light and happiness to our lives—and to everyone else who knows you. You are so greatly loved. Don’t ever forget that!

As I’ve mentioned regularly, my project up at the lake has taken far longer than I could’ve anticipated. Think of it as working on your third sketchbook in a week when you thought one would do just fine for the next month. Or take one of your many figures that seems to be finished and ready for display, but nope—another subtle shading here or major shadow there. It’s never finished. That’s the way with a lot of things we love to do and create—one idea always seems to lead to another. As it is with your drawing, so it is with my whimsical project, my “Pergola-on-a-Platform.”

My project, however, is an outdoor endeavor, and with the fall equinox now behind us in the northern hemisphere, the days grow shorter and inevitably, colder. I feel compelled to complete as much of the project as I can before Uncle Byron’s visit later this month—with Diogo in tow; won’t that be grand?!—for a weekend trip to the Red Cabin to help with the dock removal. You’ll be on hand too. I have in mind a formal ribbon-cutting ceremony—with your full participation. So anyway, these considerations weighed heavily on my decision to stay put at the cabin this week.

There’s another consideration, however, that I’d like to share with you. That’s my love for the nature around this place—Grindstone Lake, Björnholm, the Red Cabin. Whenever I walk in the woods, through the tree garden (where the pergola is under construction), along the lakeshore, or down the road; whenever I sit out on the dock and watch the ducks swim by (or eagles soar overhead) or motor around the lake at slow speed to watch the loons, check on the eagle nests, and see the pageantry of yet another sunset (no two are ever the same), I feel closer to the earth, to nature, to the fundamental rhythm of life. As my proximity to these things draws closer, my woes and worries about the world grow smaller. I like to think that if people spent more time outdoors connecting with nature, we’d all be less stressed and more satisfied with life.

But nothing in nature has a more profound effect on me than the starlit heavens on a clear moonless night; stargazing out on the dock, first without the big binoculars, then with them. The difference is like a jar of sand vs. Hamanasset Beach (last summer, remember?) stretching as far as our eyes could imagine.

What I want you to know, Illiana, is how very much I appreciate the beauty and wonders of nature, of the earth, of the cosmos. Some people attribute it all to “God.” As Grandma puts it, “God” is in nature, in the earth, in the cosmos. I prefer that perspective to the limiting definition of God that religions impose on their followers. Our minds can’t begin to grasp the full nature of nature, but in our need to have an explanation for everything—including the inexplicable—we (humankind) use the religious construct of a “God.” I say, we must think much bigger than that.

In all events, I hope that as you travel through life, wherever life leads, you’ll seek connections to nature, to beauty, to the infinite wonders of your own existence, which is every bit as much a part of nature as are the earth, the moon, and the rest of the cosmos.

That’s it for now. In closing I can’t pass up the opportunity to repeat my exhortation, “Smile, be kind, and pay attention!”   

Love,

/s/

Grandpa

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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson