Wilfrid Gordon McDonald Partridge

I found myself in the picture book corner of the children's wing of the main library in town yesterday, poring over a book a colleague recommended: Wilfrid Gordon McDonald Partridge. You can find the text online if you're in a Googly mood, but I would recommend visiting a children's library instead in order to hold the book in your hand and see the pictures. Having been published in 1985, when I'm sure my parents were already reading me the Chronicles of Narnia or some other such sophisticated "chapter books," this little gem was new to me.

Wilfrid befriends a 96 year old woman at the nursing home next door to him and hears she's lost her memory. He asks around as to what a memory is, collects some of his own things, and in the process helps his old friend recover some of her own memories.

I came home to find a book of memories that my own grandmother had made and sent - stories about the five Johns I call brother, father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and great-great-grandfather (who was really Johan until he emigrated). As I read, I contested some of the facts. Typed details were scribbled out and corrected in her hand. Stories I've heard two versions of were now undisputed in tiny cursive. Strange phrases stood out, like "flying the hump" in WWII.

When I called to thank grandma for the book, she was so appreciative. While it might not be a 100% accurate account of my family's past, it is a perfectly true representation of my grandma's memories of and love for these men.

A memory is indeed - as Wilfrid learned - something warm, something from long ago, something that makes you sad, something that makes you laugh, and something as precious as gold.