It was my typical routine. I strolled into Target, thumbed through whatever greeting cards happened to be at eye level and selected one after a quick once-over. Easy. Done. I was off to my Bubbe’s (my grandma’s) birthday party. At the party, my Bubbe opened my store-bought card. No, she wasn’t moved to tears like they promise in Hallmark commercials. The card I bought inspired a polite smile. But that’s greeting card reality, right?

Forget the card. My gift was to take Bubbe to our local art museum. A week or so later, we visited. As we strolled past art from impressionism to surrealism, I asked my Bubbe what her favorite type of art was to admire. Her response shocked me. Without hesitation, she answered, “Greeting cards.” 

She saw my surprise, and explained. “Not just any greeting cards. I love the cards your Grandpa D creates for me every day.” My curiosity rose. Bubbe went on to describe how every evening, my Grandpa D creates, just for her, a hand-written, hand-illustrated card. The next morning, he places it in her brown paper lunch bag. She takes it to work and savors each card alongside her turkey on rye.
 

Usually a love note, a poem, or words of encouragement, every card let my Bubbe know she wasn’t just loved, she was cherished. And my Grandpa D, all 5 foot 4 inches of him, felt joy knowing his art was making the day of the love of his life. When we returned from the museum, I asked Bubbe if she ever kept any cards. “I’ve kept a few,” she replied. She left the room and returned with box after box. Her collection had reached hundreds, maybe even thousands. In awe, I looked at the cards closer than I had ever looked at greeting cards before. For the first time, I saw cards as opportunities instead of obligations.

My grandfather wasn’t a master illustrator. Could he write magical verse like Shakespeare? Not really. But if great art makes an impact, those homemade cards truly are masterpieces. 

I began to realize store bought cards use handwritten fonts and sketch-like illustrations to mimic being homemade. They have generic messages to apply to anyone.  My Grandpa D’s cards helped me understand that effort and care are the difference between messages receiving polite smiles and being treasured forever. The biggest lesson I learned from my Grandpa D is that we’re all given a blank canvas each day. We can use it to complain or to compliment. We can copy or we can create. Why reuse someone else’s thoughts when we can genuinely and uniquely show our appreciation for the people we love.

A few months after that trip to the art museum, my Grandpa D went in for routine outpatient surgery but there was a complication.  By the time it was discovered, it was too late. Within weeks, despite fighting hard, Grandpa D succumbed to sepsis. It’s been hard on everyone in my family.
 

I now see my Bubbe much more often so she feels less alone. Each week, we meet for what we call Starbucks Sundays. A few months ago, I reached into my purse and handed Bubbe an envelope. She looked at it curiously, then opened it to discover my first handmade card. It simply let her know how much I loved her. I can’t make Bubbe a card every day, and I’m not as good at it as Grandpa D. But I now make only homemade cards for all my family and friends for birthdays and special events.

I’ve never been to The Louvre. I’m sure the art is incredible. But my Grandpa D taught me that great art doesn’t need to hang on the walls of fancy museums. Sometimes, great masterpieces can be found in a brown paper bag, next to a turkey on rye.