Lesson #1: Instill Gratitude

About a mile up the road from the house in which I grew up was a convenience store/gas station called Sacks. I loved Sacks. But I didn’t love it for its mammoth size (it was the convenience store equivalent of a Toyota Prius), its upkeep (the uneven floors and snack racks hadn't seen a bottle of disinfectant in their lifetime), or its charming staff (I mean, it was a convenience store); I loved it because of its, well, convenience. It was nearby, it offered all the bargain-priced junk food a child "needs," and we knew everyone there. Most importantly, going there meant little Claude could expect a quick sugar fix.

I mean, I really loved that place.

You could find an Anderson in there once, twice, maybe five times a day. It was my sweet tooth's savior, my dad's brief mental escape, and my family's plan E for whatever item someone forgot at the grocery store and the other grocery store and Wal-Mart and K-Mart.

All that to say we stopped in enough to be deemed a regular, if not a valued favorite. Yet we didn't stop in enough for me to get so comfortable as to be allowed to leave without saying "thank you" to the clerk after my dad paid for the Ho Ho's or Big League Chew or candy cigarettes I picked out, because my dad wouldn't let me. I can't tell you how many times I grabbed my snacks and turned for the door, only to have my dad chastise me with a "Nuh-uh… What do you say, Claude?"

"Thank you, ma'am (or sir)," I'd half-heartedly mumble with eyes rolling.

Thank you. Two words, so simple. Two very routine syllables to utter, yet it seemed like such a chore. What did I have to say this for anyway? They knew us – we were there all the time. And it wasn't like they actually did anything that deserved my gratitude; if anything, they took my dad's money and made us Andersons that less closer to rich. Besides, I was just a kid, so they weren't expecting me to do it. Why did I have to say it every single time? Couldn't I just leave the disgusting filth of that store and its underwhelming employees and climb into our luxurious Dodge Omni one time without forcing a thank-you that I didn't mean anyway?

My mom showed no less insistence in her coercing me to communicate my thanks where appropriate. Every Christmas, every birthday, high school graduation, college graduation, and any other calendar event that resulted in gifts I certainly didn't deserve was followed by a pestering onslaught of "Have you written a thank-you card yet?" reminders. It reached a point where I no longer looked forward to receiving gifts, because I knew it meant eventual, obligatory thank-you cards telling the giver how much I enjoyed the $20 check and some exaggerated report of how I spent it.

"Thank you, Grandmother (or Aunt or Friend)," I'd reluctantly scribble with mouth sighing.

Thank you. Two words, followed by maybe a couple postcard-length sentences to provide further context. Couldn't possibly be simpler. It kept me away from Nerf basketball and my remote-controlled car for a whopping three minutes. But why did I have to do this for every gift? Wasn't a phone call good enough? Or couldn't my thanks just be assumed without being stated? I mean, I obviously enjoyed the gift – they'd probably later see photographs with the wrong date stamped of me enjoying the gift, which clearly portrays my inherent gratitude. Besides, I was just a kid, so they weren't expecting me to do it. Why did I have to say it every single time?

But later in life I got it. I got a few samples of that bad aftertaste that sets in once you part ways with hard-earned money or sacrifice time and energy or emotionally invest yourself, all toward giving something that was supposed to make someone's day, unexpectedly bless them, or say "I love you" – only to receive a half-hearted thank-you. Or a reluctant thank-you. Or no thank-you at all. And I realized how much a cheerful, grateful demeanor – a true display of humility and honor to receive a gift or service that someone may or may not have had to do – was and is and will always be worth to someone. I realized, when looking back at all those times my dad pushed me to say "thank you" and my mom refused to let me not write "thank you," that they were instilling in me one of those rare habits that can be deemed good: the habit of expressing sincere gratitude.

The expression of gratitude doesn't have to be grandiose. It doesn't have to be flowery or poetic. It can be quick and to the point – but it must be sincere. It's important.

Someone did something for me, someone gave something to me, and that particular someone may have devoted a lot of little moments of thought, time, and effort simply for one solitary moment of satisfaction in seeing my need or desire met. For me to not devote one very minor moment toward expressing sincere gratitude in return would be, at best, unacceptable and, at worst, insulting and hurtful. It'd be breaking a good habit.

It took some time to develop, but I now have a hugely habitual need to express gratitude to people as warranted. I'd say my parents deserve a thank-you for that. A whole-hearted, non-reluctant, very sincere thank-you.