My granddaughter has decided to do some genealogical research into her background.

That creates a few problems because I was adopted. I told her I have no clue about my biological parents. Her blood line begins with me in that regard. However, since I was legally adopted as an infant into the family that raised me, she should include that family history as mine.

I was adopted by a couple in their 50’s. All are long gone except for one of my brother’s and he is in his 80’s. My adoptive parents had already raised their own, biological family, before adopting little WalksAlone.

This morning she sent me a listing of all those souls buried at the church I attended as a child. I went down the list, copying and pasting names and adding an explanation about who each was and how they were related. Then, like a good grandmother, I emailed it back to her.

That list, while it did not include some of the most recent passing’s, was like a walk down memory lane for me. I read names and remembered faces. I remembered days of Sunday school and Church as a child when some of these people were my teachers, and others my friends. Some had lived to be old. Some had died so frightfully young.

The names and dates listed on grave markers give the bare facts of a life. Born on this date and died on this one. Maybe, on the old stones, there will be a Bible verse or saying. Maybe a line telling who’s son or daughter they were. The dates say nothing of the time in between.

The two most important dates to us all, I suppose, are the ones on which we enter this world and the one on which we leave. Life is what happens in-between those dates. Life is the trials and tribulations, joys and triumphs, love and laughter that occur as we walk our path from the first date to the last.

As a child I took many trips to graveyards with my parents to check on the resting places of their loved ones. I was told who lay here or there and was told stories about the person. I enjoyed the stories; some funny, some serious. I see now that it was my mom and dad keeping the memories alive, by telling those stories they assured these people lived on in one more memory.

When I am also a memory, I hope someone will tell the stories of me. May someone tell the funny stories, the stories that tell of my successes and failures and of the little things that make me who I am. After all, that’s what counts; the time and events between the dates.

 

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