In a couple of weeks, my Dad will turn 85 or perhaps 90. We’re not sure which. He was born in Cuba back in the days when babies were dropped in the fields or maybe at home in a narrow string bed. Records were kept in the head of the oldest woman in the village, usually the midwife, or sometimes if it was a small town and they had a parish priest, he’d write the children’s names in a yellowing vellum ledger. And if the church hadn’t burned down or been looted by the time you realized you needed the documents, you might be able to track down your ancestors. In my Dad’s case, we think his parents were migrant agricultural workers – cane cutters, maybe,…
Categories: Family
Tagged: Alzheimer's disease, Father