The song sung by the Judds, "Grandpa, Tell Me About The Good Old Days" makes me yearn for my Grandpa Higgerson. Although he departed this life in 1973, in so many ways, he lives on.

In 1952, Grandpa was involved in a serious automobile accident and suffered several broken ribs. While my mother worked in town, I stayed with my grandparents. So as Grandpa recuperated around the house, he held my tiny hand in his and took baby steps with me as I llearned to walk while he healed.

Why was he so memorable, and why do his experiences still resonate so strongly with me? Neither wealth nor fame visited his door, but he was rich in time and experiences, which he shared with his curious little granddaughter.

As a child, I loved sitting on Grandpa's lap in the old goose-neck rocking chair listening to it creak on the wooden floor of the living room. Studying and tracing the calluses on his rough carpenter's hands, I'd question him about his childhood, his family, and his life growing up along the Mississippi River in New Madrid County, Missouri.

I can still smell the tobacco he chewed and hear him spitting in the old instant coffee jar kept always by his side. Grandma deplored his addiction and crocheted yarn covers for his "spit jar," as we called it. With the cover, no one could see its disgusting contents.

He'd pick the can up off the floor, unscrew the cover, spit into it, rescrew the cover, and set it quietly on the floor by his side, then commence his recitation, as though the pause to spit helped his memory. If nothing else, it was good for effect.

"Well, there was Watt, my only brother," he'd say, "who drowned in a boating accident on the Mississippi River when he was 10 years old. My mother almost drowned, too, but her hair got tangled in a drift pile, and when the boat struck the pile loosening it, someone saw her hair and pulled her to safety. All the rest, including my two cousins, Hallie and Cordie Hubbard, drowned."

I always felt somewhat uncomfortable when Grandpa mentioned this tragedy, because I did not know how to react or respond. I had never experienced the death of a loved one.

"How did the accident happen, Grandpa?" I asked, because a child dying was unimaginable to me.

He explained that there had been a dance at Island Number 10 in the Mississippi River on February 25th, 1903, that people lived on the islands in the river back then, and seven people, including his mother and two cousins, were returning from a dance in a neighbor's skiff.

"What's a skiff," I inquired?

"Well, honey, it's a kind of boat."

Continuing, he mentioned that the boat was caught in an eddy and capsized.

"What's an eddy, Grandpa?"

"Where the water swirls around in the river like a cyclone."

Never truly understanding but trying to imagine such a thing, I nodded, after which he continued.

"The boat containing seven people was sucked into a drift pile in the river. After my mother was pulled out, the body of Mrs. Robinson was recovered because she was a large woman and floated. Her son, Carl, along with Watt, Hallie, Cordie, and the driver of the boat, Brownie Jones, their bodies were never found. Uncle Eddie even threw dynamite into the river to see if they might float up, but the powerful river had probably carried them downstream."

Trying to change the subject to something more pleasant, I asked about Grandpa's cousins. This was the part I liked the most, watching him count on his fingers 11 names of the children of his Aunt Dora and Uncle Andrew. "Now, let's see," he'd say. "There was Clara, Walter, Nevada, Arthur, Anna, Andrew, Harold, Alice, Mary, Hattie, and Benjamin."

Reared as an only child, I could not fathom having that many brothers and sisters!

For 20 years, Momma and I spent almost every Sunday with my grandparents, either at their house or ours, where we had Sunday dinner at noon, as we called it. If Grandpa wasn't busy, and I had his undivided attention, I'd ask him again to chronicle his life because I never tired hearing it. In doing so, I practiced my high school Gregg shorthand. More importantly, it gave me the opportunity to impress him with my newly learned skill. I always wanted him to be proud of me.

Grandpa's stories influenced my life in many ways. Very young I learned the importance of recording family history and memories for the next generation, and I regret now that I did not do more. I was young and busy going to school, dating, and working. But I cherish the time I spent with Grandpa because he taught me about his heritage, which is a part of my heritage, too. Many of life's lessons were learned at his knee without either of us realizing it.

Is it any wonder that my profession evolved into that of a court reporter, genealogist, and personal historian with my own company, Legacy in Words, LLC?

All families have priceless stories, which, when recorded, are treasured gifts for today and future generations. You just might have a little grandchild or curious niece remembering you and thanking you for your legacy in words someday.