Relics and Records

The things that tell the story, the things that tell the truth, and why we need both.

I remember the first time I learned, as a kid, that my parents shared the same birthday.

Not their anniversary. Their actual birthday.

I thought it was the coolest thing. I’d go to school and say, “It’s my parents’ birthday today.” Without fail, someone would correct me: “Don’t you mean their anniversary?” And I’d grin and say, “Nope. Their birthday.”

It became a quirky tradition in our family, something we celebrated and talked about. The only problem? Hallmark never printed a card that said, “To My Parents on Their Birthday.” As a kid, crayons and notebook paper filled the gap. As an adult, not so much!

But in 2003, everything changed. My dad passed away two days before their birthday. Two days later, we still went out with my mom to celebrate, but the joy felt different. A few days after that, I officiated at my father’s funeral. Those moments left a permanent mark. Not long after, we moved my mom into a small house in Pompano Beach, where she’s lived for the last 23 years.

Recently, as we prepare to relocate together to Tennessee, I’ve been helping her sort through decades of memories. Packing always slows down when you stumble across old photos and stories that beg to be retold. Today was one of those days.

I had to pry open her cedar chest with a hammer and screwdriver. Inside were treasures: birth and death certificates, wedding photos, graduation announcements, and a priceless picture of my dad with his two brothers—all of them now gone.

Then came the surprise. I found my father’s birth certificate. Curious, I opened it, expecting to see the details I already knew. But one line stopped me in my tracks. The date. It wasn’t the date we had celebrated for over 70 years. My father had been celebrating his birthday one day late his entire life.

That meant his tombstone, his death certificate, even family lore—were all technically wrong!

You can’t make this stuff up. For all those years, he had been celebrating the wrong birthday.

It hit me: no matter how strong the tradition, no matter how certain the memory, the record told a different story. And the record doesn’t lie.

That’s the thing about life:

• Relics carry the stories.

• Records carry the truth.

We need both. The stories give life to the facts, and the facts anchor the stories in reality.

And maybe that’s the takeaway—preserve both. Keep the relics that spark the laughter and tears but also protect the records. They are what future generations will lean on when the stories get fuzzy.