The following is an excerpt from chapter three of the rough draft of a new book I am presently writing.  The book focuses on the last months of my elderly father’s earthly life, and the myriad of conversations we had during visits with him at The Oaks, an assisted living center.  Dad had just moved out of the house he had lived in since 1957, and away from the small town he had called home for over 80 years.  It was no easy decision for him, but it was one of necessity.  In this exchange, I was helping him unpack his stuff the day after arriving at his new home– a modest two-room apartment that would serve as his final home address.

       Together we unloaded the final container of stuff I had brought, giving us a unique opportunity to talk about things past.   In the box were a few pictures and some small items that had special significance to him. I placed the black and white five-by-seven picture of my mom next to his bed as he had ordered. Among a few framed pictures of family and friends, one item caught my eye. It was a small, brown leather book no larger than four inches square, packed full of names, addresses and phone numbers. Turning back some of the pages, I saw that most of them were obviously quite old—entries written in fountain pens, and even addresses without zip codes.

      “What in the world is this, Dad?” He stopped digging in his billfold long enough to look intently at what I was showing him.

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