Alice Moody

Long before the days of Filofax, Google Calendar, and Outlook, my beloved father kept track of important dates in his trusty 2.5 X 4 inch Sandoz datebook.

Small enough to tuck in a breast pocket, the notebook catalogued important dates in the life of a busy OB-GYN, a man with a kind smile and calm disposition. Most entries, scrawled in my dad’s difficult-to-decipher surgeon’s script, involved patients. Patients with names like Harriet and Mary and Edith and Joan. He dutifully recorded their surgeries, lab orders, and hospital admissions.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly wistful, I open my desk drawer and take out my dad’s time-keeping treasure. The cerulean cover’s gold embossing has faded over time, but his faithful recordings from the year 1969 remain intact. I nestle the notebook in the palm of one hand and use the other to flip the delicate pages. Within seconds I stop at the date I’ve come for: Tuesday, April 8.

Beneath two entries (New Patient: Judy P- and Admit Abigail C-), I read another – this one recorded in navy, a departure from his trademark black ink. The words are bold and celebratory:

Had baby girl. Alice Elizabeth. 3:10am.

I rub my finger over the letters composed more than a half-century ago: a lasting reminder of my arrival in the world. The tangible mark heralds the beginning of my connection to a man I admire and love, a connection that endures six years after his death.