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One of the nice things about having grown children is that I no longer have to bug them about writing thank-you notes. When they were little, all three would dictate thank-yous that I would include with drawings they'd made of their presents. By the time Eleanor, Sarah and Drew were old enough to write their own thank-you notes, however, they would do so only with much prodding.

"Have you written to thank Grandy for the book yet?" I'd ask. "What did you say to Aunt Dorothy about that top?" Invariably, I'd be met with mumbles and shrugs.

One year, in the days following Christmas, I'd grown weary of nagging. The children had become mother-deaf. Frustrated, I declared that no one would be allowed to play with a new toy or wear a new outfit until the appropriate thank-you notes had been mailed. Still they procrastinated and grumbled.

Something snapped. "Everyone into the car." I said.

"Where are we going?" Sarah asked, bewildered.

"To buy a Christmas present." But it's after Christmas, she protested.

"No arguing," I said in a tone that meant exactly that.

Bursting free from the confines of the car, the children headed for their yard toys. "Not so fast," I said. "We've got to wrap the presents." The kids slouched inside.

When we reached town, Drew noted our arrival time. The children helped me select presents for my sisters at a local shop. Then we turned round and drove home.

The kids piled into the car. "You're going to see just how much time those who care about you spend when they give you a present." I told them. Handing Drew a pad of paper and a pencil, I said, "Please mark down the time we left home."

"Drew," I asked, "did you note the time we got home?" He nodded. "OK, please time the girls while they wrap the presents."

"And how long did it take us to wrap the boxes?" Eleanor asked.

When they'd tied the last bow, they looked up expectantly. "How long did this all take?" I asked Drew.

Glancing at his notes, he said, "It took us 28 minutes to get to town and 15 minutes to buy the presents. Then it was 38 minutes to get home because we had to buy petrol."

"Me too." echoed Sarah.

"Each of you did one present in two minutes," Drew said.

"Fifty-six minutes, round trip," Drew reckoned.

"OK," Drew said. "We need to add about 15 minutes for mailing."

"And how many minutes will it take to mail these presents?" I asked.

The children looked down at the table and shook their heads.

Silence reigned as the children gathered their thoughts; soft pen scratchings followed. "Done," said Eleanor, pressing her envelope closed.

"So, what's the total time we'd spend to give someone a present?"

I laid some stationery, a pen and an envelope beside each child. "Now please write a thank-you note. Be sure to mention the present by name and tell what fun you'll have using it."

"Is three minutes too much to thank someone for a thoughtful gift that may have taken two-and-a-half hours to choose and send to you?" I asked.

Drew worked out the arithmetic. "Two hours and 34 minutes," he said.

"But you forgot standing-in-line time, "said Sarah.

"That took us three minutes." Drew said, sealing his letter.

"What did you say?" he asked. I could tell he was formulating the rest of his thank-you notes.

"You remember them?" I asked.

"Like dinners or lunches. Or weekends at someone's home or the time someone takes to give you advice on university applications or careers."

Years later, I had the chance to visit Uncle Arthur. As we chatted, he told me he'd always enjoyed my notes.

"Absolutely."

Drew groaned. "Like what?"

"It was a long time ago," I said.

"It's a good idea to get into the habit now. In time you'll want to write thank-you notes for many things."

"Did you have to write thank-yous when you were a kid?" Drew asked.

Then I remembered Uncle Arthur, my great-grandfather's youngest brother. I'd never met him, yet every Christmas he sent me a gift. He was blind and lived far away. His niece Becca, who lived next door, sat down with him and wrote out $5 cheques to his great -- and great-great-grandnieces and -- nephews. I always wrote, telling him what I'd spent his cheque on.

"Yes," he replied. "I've saved some of my favorites." He waved towards a stand by the window. "Would you get the packet of letters out of the top drawer? It's wrapped in ribbon."

"And did you?" he asked.

I found an old letter with my handwriting and read aloud: "Dear Uncle Arthur, I am writing this to you as I sit under the hair dryer at the beauty salon. Tonight is the Holiday Ball at the high school and I am spending your Christmas cheque having my hair done for the party. Thank you so very much. I know I'll have a wonderful time, in part because of your thoughtful gift. Love, Faith."

Sarah's tug at my sleeve pulled me back to the present. "What are you smiling at?" she asked.

I thought back to that wonderful evening so many years ago. "Definitely," I answered with a smile that I wished Uncle Arthur could see.

"My date thought I did."

I told the children about Uncle Arthur's gifts and how glad I was that I'd written a note each year. They obviously meant a lot to him.

"I think I have a photo of that evening," I said, going to the bookshelves and pulling down a scrapbook. I opened it to a photo of me standing in front of my parents' fireplace. I'm wearing a black velvet evening dress, and my hair is done in an elaborate French twist. Beside me, a handsome young man beams as he hands me a corsage.

"Who did you go to the ball with? What did you wear?" asked Eleanor.

"And did you look beautiful?" Asked Sarah.

"But that's Daddy!" Eleanor said with surprise.

I nodded and smiled.

As the children settled down to finish the rest of their notes, I stroked the faded petals of the dried gardenia pasted next to the photo.

Last Christmas, Bob and I celebrated our thirty-sixth wedding anniversary. Thank you, Uncle Arthur.