George Washington and I were in the same classroom back in 1955. I was in the middle of the alphabetized rows, and he was on the wall above the blackboard.

I can clearly remember George. He looked bored and disapproving, being forever stuck up there. We got to come and go from the room—even the letters and numbers on the blackboard got erased from time to time.

Most impressions of my childhood are easy to recall, yet occasionally I’m frustrated that some memories haven’t faithfully accompanied me through the years.

Like lots of families who have reunions these summer months, our family recently assembled to talk and eat and make photos, and of course, to remember. Being the oldest member of the group, I felt a keen responsibility to share memories with those younger. In some cases, I was the only one present who had first-hand knowledge about some of our ancestors and events.

One of our great grandmothers passed away when I hadn’t yet reached a full handful of years. I wanted to tell others at the reunion something about this grand old lady.

I tried to remember how she looked, how she spoke, how she laughed. I tried to remember what activities she enjoyed. The only memory that came to me was of her literally on her deathbed. My parents ushered me into her room. She pointed to a bedside table and strained her voice to say, “Let the little boy have some of my grapes.”

Surely, I had encounters with my great grandmother before that final one, but I don’t remember any. I don’t even remember if I took some of the grapes she offered.

At the reunion, Brother Number Three and I recalled a childhood memory involving a goat. Our versions were similar, yet didn’t exactly match.

We remembered the time when Brother Number Two (now deceased) and I had tied a pet goat with grass strings to a little red wagon. We placed Brother Number Three (this was before there was a Brother Number Four) into the wagon and told him to “hang on!” We let the rambunctious goat do what rambunctious goats do, and that Radio Flyer toy wagon went flying. When the goat abruptly stopped to butt a fence, little brother spilled from the wagon, and we rushed to his rescue.

Our memories aligned with that much of the story; however, our memories were in opposition as to exactly where it happened.

In addition to taking along a tasty side dish, it’s always good to deliver memories at family reunions.

As I get older, though, it seems some memories have faded like chalk dust on old blackboards.