Marcia V. Lyles

I cherish the 73-year-old Baby Book, my mother’s meticulous account of my first seven years, savoring her loving comments, often remembering treasured moments, still missing the woman who died when I was ten.

She dotingly recorded every “first” in my life.  Of course, I don’t remember the listed first visitors, or the gifts they brought, but I can close my eyes and see my mother writing, for my first Christmas, “… and she was just a sweet little Xmas present herself,” remembering how every year, no matter how hard times were, my mother tried to make Christmas special.

I know the date I cut my first tooth, the date I lost my first tooth and when I read, “Her daddy pulled it out,” I remember my father tying a string around the tooth and telling me to close my eyes and my amazement that somehow the tooth fairy managed to leave me a quarter without waking me. 

She recorded the exact date I stopped sucking my thumb, marveling that I did it in one day, noting, “Because she was promised Santa will bring her a walking doll and sewing machine.”  I can still see that stiff-walking wooden doll. 

My fourth birthday was Election Day, and she wrote about my first big party with “27 children,” listing the gifts they brought, and the food she served, from ice cream to turkey dressing, and my Shirley Temple curls. 

Even before the book was found and given to me thirty years ago, I always told the story of how I wanted to be a teacher since I was four years old. I can’t help beaming when I read the simple, “Loved It” to describe my first day of school. 

It's filled with facts; it’s filled with love.