There were tough times too. Maydeth got frustrated when she was unable to get the colored Christmas balls to hang on the tree. "I can’t!" she fussed. And when one of her new dolls broke, she crawled into the big armchair and sobbed, "All sick! All hurt!". When Maydeth’s grandfather would get into a coughing spell, she would step over and pat him on the back, then walk to her mother in the kitchen announcing nervously – "Choke, water!" When Grampa scratched his hand while berry picking, it was Maydeth who wiped away the blood, applying a damp facecloth and assuring her elder – "Aw right now."

If there was a pinnacle to Maydeth’s brief career as a child, it was certainly the annual Upton Lawn Party. At 19- months she took first prize in the doll carriage parade. Her picture, with her rose-colored stroller, was featured in the newspaper and the yellowed clipping is glued into the baby book.

What we had, before Maydeth’s baby book arrived, was a family tragedy. What we have now, with the arrival of her short story, is a family memory, lovingly recorded, painfully completed and then lost for 70 years. Her mother and father have passed on. The barn has been razed, the old house sold. Maydeth’s baby book and this short essay are all the history she will likely ever have.

There was an envelope inside the book as well. I opened it, in writing this, and found a thick yellow lock of Maydeth’s hair, still curled, still glistening. A few of the hairs clung to the inside of my hand and refused to be recaptured. Others lifted off the desk and disappeared into the air. There was a small printed card in the envelope as well. It read only, "With love, for the baby."

Sometimes, and it does not happen often, we truly get to touch the past. Rarer still are the moments when the past seeks us out -- and touches back.

Copyright 2004 by J. Dennis Robinson