Yesterday, Mother and I were trying to fill out an insurance form. The questions were simple enough: names and addresses for us, the sibs and Daddy’s sister. Then it asked for dates of birth and death of his parents.
We knew the dates of birth easily enough (I was married on my grandmother’s birthday and she was born in 1900), but the dates of death were more elusive. We knew month and year, but the precise dates escaped us.
So we started to look. I looked through old Bibles and a drawer or two. I didn’t find the dates, but I found a stash of newspaper articles from my senior year in high school and my brother’s commencement program from his graduation from Georgia Tech.
Mother found the best thing ever, though. Nestled in her files was a notebook labeled “Moo Book,” a record of the cows she and Daddy bought and sold when I was just a little girl. There, in ink, was a record of Big Red, the bull who treed us in the house when I was little. Mother and I were home alone and he got out and ran circles around our house and then the neighbor lady’s house up on the hill. Mother called Daddy, and he came home from work, went up to the neighbor’s house with a bucket of feed, and Big Red, that huge bull, followed him home and back into the pasture.
We did finally find the dates we were looking for, but I’m glad we didn’t find them too quickly. The memories we found during search were well worth it.