This is my 200th blog. One of the main things I’ve discovered during my 200 posts is my stories have resurrected memories for others. I think that’s a good thing. Some of you lived the stories with me, others were reminded of similar tales from their own past, and still others garnered a smile or laugh at my expense.
I expect that all people have similar tales, but few take the time to record them. The recording is the history. Without the retelling, and recording, each of our personal history passes silently away.
I can’t explain how memories are “triggered”. Perhaps one bid of memory, touches another, which rekindles another, and before you know it you discover how things are related.
I ran across this picture of my Grandma Tebo a few days ago. If you’re an avid reader, or a relative, you 
know that Ma Tebo, as my dad called her, was really my dad’s grandmother and my great-grandmother. (I’ve reposted the related story below if you’d like another look.)
My mom recorded the picture’s origin on its back. It’s dated May 30, 1953 and was taken in front of Mt. Clemens’s St. Louis Church at my cousin, Joyce’s, wedding. The event was held one day after my sixth birthday. The picture and its history reminded me of a conversation between my cousin Joyce, my Aunt Dutch (Joyce’s mom) and my mom. Our family was visiting Aunt Dutch, Uncle Elmer, and Joyce. During the visit Joyce asked me to be the ring-bearer for her wedding.
I didn’t know what a ring-bearer was, so they explained. After learning more I offered a quick “No” and the discussion ended. I don’t understand why I remember that moment, but I do.
The 1953 date meant that Grandma Tebo was sixty-seven years old when the picture was taken. She always seemed “old” to me. This picture confirms how she looks in each bit of my memory. She always wore a dress, the same high-top black shoes, and a hat or babushka. She carried a purse when she left the house and made sure that she had her teeth.
I looked for a picture of the grandmother that I live with, aka “Nana”, when she was sixty-seven. I wished to make a comparison of two equal moments snatched from time, but I was unable to identify one. I settled for a new picture, and even though there’s a five year difference in the two grandmothers, I think that you’ll agree that things have definitely changed over the past sixty-six years.
Today’s grandma wears tennis shoes and jeans most days, seldom wears a hat, never 
carries a purse, and has her own teeth.
And in sharp contrast to grandmas of many generations, neither of these grandmas colored their hair.
As I prepared to write this blog, I had one final thought about my cousin, Joyce.
While we seldom saw each other over the years, she always kept track of my mom and dad. She wrote cards, and made telephone calls, from wherever her life as a military spouse took her. She didn’t hold my refusal to take part in her wedding against them.
The last time I spoke to Joyce was the afternoon before my father died. I was alone in his hospital room with him when the telephone rang. It was Joyce and she asked to speak to my dad. When I told her that he was sleeping, she asked me to pass on a message to him. “Please tell him that Joyce called and I love him. Be sure to tell him.”
He was still sleeping when I left for the evening. I never had the opportunity to pass on the message, but I believe he knew. If he didn’t, he does now.