Most of us have those memories — just a very few — when we recall where we were and what we were doing when we first heard about something truly significant.

For a few of you reading this, you have clear recall of first learning about Pearl Harbor. That “day that will live in infamy.”

A great many of us will never forget that dark day November 22, 1963. That our young President could be taken from us so tragically, senselessly, just didn’t seem possible.

Of course, many of us have those “I remember when …” memories of personal events first learned about or experienced. Not things of national, or international scope, but important to us, to our family.

Perhaps my first memory of a historic event — no, absolutely my first memory — came on April 12, 1945.

I was playing in the side yard of my grandparents’ house on the farm over in Edgecombe County.

She was coming down the steps from the side porch when I asked, “Grandmama, why are you crying?”

“President Roosevelt just died, son,” was her simple reply.

And yes, I do remember this clearly, absolutely, though I was just six years old.

My grandparents lived in an old, wooden house that had no central heat or running water. Which meant, of course, no indoor bathroom facilities.

They weren’t poor, for there was always ample food. On the farm were chickens, pigs, cows and two mules. My grandmother sold eggs weekly in Tarboro and, of course, made her own butter. Outside there was a smokehouse. (There was also a two-seat privy. An interesting convenience, a two-seater.)

My grandfather was a very hardworking farmer. Very. During planting and harvesting seasons his days started often before light. So too for my grandmother, who worked culinary wonders on that large wood cook stove.

The days I spent with them on the farm were wonderful. The lack of amenities most city folks enjoyed bothered me not at all. I loved them, and I loved that farm, and all the many places a little boy could experience and enjoy. (Not so, however, when the old hen chased me for trying to catch one of her little ones.)

All of this, all these memories, were made a long time ago.

I haven’t forgotten them. Unless some health impairment comes upon me, I don’t think I ever will.

It is my hope that some day I’ll see my grandparents again. Also, I look forward to meeting my grandparents on my father’s side.

Should this happen — and I choose to believe it will — I know exactly what I’m going to say to Dr. Walter Bartow Houston (b. 1862 d. 1919):

“Hi, grandpa. I’m Bartow Jr.”

Memories.

And hope.