My grandpa called me last Saturday night. His name is Don. He’s my dad’s dad and of all the grandpas I have (four – both sets of grandparents are divorced), the one to whom I’m closest. I used to see him regularly when we lived in the same state. We’d go apple picking or do a puzzle or he’d come over for Sunday football. One time I gave him a dove so he’d always have company. But he gave the dove to his friend Orv who sold it to a woman at the grocery store.

After my grandpa moved to Chicago we stayed in contact, mostly via letters. I believe in the sanctity of snail mail more than certain constitutional amendments, so I had no problem maintaining a steady stream of handwritten correspondence. My letters were long, meticulous accounts of my current state of affairs and always featured some sort of joke of the week and a drawing. I wrote them on my nicest monogrammed stationery and sealed the envelope with a sticker. My grandpa’s replies usually began, “Hi Brat” or “Hey Slim,” and were more often than not written on the back of the letter I most recently sent, because my grandpa is painfully cheap and reuses everything from envelopes to plastic wrap.

After I moved out here to Boston, the letters slowed for two reasons. First, I got busy trying to make friends and pretending like I knew what I was doing. Second, my grandpa was sick of writing. I don’t think he has arthritis, but I also don’t think he likes seeing how shaky his hands are. Whatever the case, he made it very clear he prefers phone calls. But the problem with phoning my grandpa is that he lives alone in an apartment in suburban Chicago and can quite literally talk about infomercials for upward of three hours. I’ll say, “Hey Grandpa I’m in charge of dinner tonight – I gotta go.” And he’ll say, “Is that right? Well for Christ’s sake what are you making? You know I had a pretty good Italian beef sandwich the other day, down on Pulaski. A little soggy but you know, not bad…” while I stare into the distance and realize I’m going to have to hang up on my own grandfather.

I hadn’t given him my new cell number so when he called last week it was a complete surprise. I was just heading out – it was Saturday night – so I called him back the next day. We had a lovely chat; covered everything from what I did the night before (“Pot and porn?” “No Grandpa, I don’t get high and watch porn with my friends,”) to which Spanish sports channels have the best looking female announcers. He even suggested an iPhone app for fax machines: “If you can send electronic letters to each other (read: texts) you should be able to send a goddam fax.”

It was a long call, but my grandpa is funny and I like hearing his shamelessly cynical take on things (I think it’s heritable). But afterward I had the same string of thoughts I do everytime I connect with someone I don’t see very often. I think, man, I love this person. We’re family. We should talk more. I’m going to make sure we talk more. Then, of course, I go back to my life and routine and the whole resolution gets thrown out the window.

Sometimes I feel like the only way to stay in contact with everyone I want or need to is to send out a weekly newsletter or something. “What’s New with Emily.” “Na na na na, na na na na, Emily’s world.” And then receive a bunch of them from the same people. Realistically though I’d probably put off even reading those. And I think it’s ironic that I’m struggling with this when I’m always on my phone. But I’m on there doing electronic letters, sharing my dumb thoughts on Twitter and sending ungodly Snapchats. If I stop to think about it, though, are those things really more important to me than sustaining a relationship with my grandpa? No. They’re just more immediately gratifying.

So how do I remedy a sincere desire to build strong, meaningful relationships with a tendency to play online Solitaire until three in the morning? I guess I just want to keep a reasonable perspective; understand even old people can joke around and provide good conversation, and it’s not the end of the world if I have to fake a small-scale hurricane to get off the phone. Give and take, right?

I haven’t called my grandpa again, but I will. It will probably be the next time I’m up late watching Cuban boxing on Telemundo, which, let’s be honest, could be any day of the week.

-Emily Huizenga can be reached at [email protected].