I have a shabby old address book that is a real treasure. It has reason to look as tattered as it does. It’s on its way to becoming an antique. And, like any antique, the value is enhanced by the provenance. This book’s provenance has more to do with life experience than its origin. My son practiced writing his name on the inside cover long before he started to school. In fact, he decorated several of those dog-eared and ragged pages with scribbles that don’t appear in any other book, so, of course, I need to keep it for the record.
The old book has names of people who are no longer with us: family, friends, professional people, pediatricians (how long have I not needed that?) As I look through these pages, I remember that some of my friends are one of a kind.
For example, there’s the name and address of the woman who lived down along the Red River. She grew gourds of all shapes and sizes. My mother and I stopped by her house on the way to Texas one day to buy some gourds. Not a lot of people share their home with a family of owls in the attic, but she did. She also kept her Christmas tree hanging upside down in her living room from one Christmas to the next, covered with a sheet. She gave me a small dog bobble head which now bobbles on my kitchen windowsill. I can always count on that little dog to agree with everything I say. I miss the dear owl lady who grew gourds.
On another page of the address book, there’s the elderly gentleman who lived in Texas and sold old books. I once went through a Mary Roberts Rinehart phase and bought many books from him. That was a lot of years ago.
Many of my nieces and nephews moved from place to place before they settled down. My book bears record of the universities attended, their military addresses, and of course a lot of phone numbers.
On another page is the name and address of the relative in California I met one day as she came through Oklahoma. She gave me lots of genealogical information.
There’s the Georgia cousin I never met but who sent me many nice letters and family pictures.
After Mom died, a dear cousin in Tulsa took remnants of some of Mom’s dresses and pieced a beautiful quilt top. Her name and address are recorded in the frayed book.
Turning these pages is a trip down memory lane. True, it looks disreputable but like the people whose names it holds, it has character. The shabby old address book is truly one of a kind.
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