When I was a little girl about 8 or 10 years old, my grandfather whom I loved very much, would take me with him as he went around to different old cemeteries in the county where we lived. He would write down the names and dates on the gravestones as he told me about the people who were buried there. They were usually friends or relatives of his. Now I wish I had listened closer to his stories, but then it didn't matter. What mattered was that he was sharing his memories with me and talking to me, and we were enjoying the hot summer days together.
He and his friend, Mr. Stone, were compiling a family history. There were many notes written in pencil on notebook paper or in Big Chief tablets, and he wanted very much for them to be printed neatly. So when I was 12 years old I sneaked my older sister's typing textbook whenever I could and taught myself to type so I could print my grandfather's notes into a pretty format. He was very pleased.
When I was 14 my grandfather died at the age of 91. He had been so full of life and so unafraid of death, it was hard to believe he was gone. I kept all his notes. When I grew up and married and had children of my own, I went home and started working on grandpa's family history. It's been years now since I took up where he left off, and every time I come across a new "find," I think of him and wish he was here to share the fun, and I think of those hot, dusty summer days we shared together.
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