Visiting my grandfather in North Carolina was nothing short of a civic wonderland. Before my feet had even crossed the flaxen welcome mat, I was being ordered, per our routine, to list each US state and capital in alphabetical order. "_Let's hear it, Cheyenne..._" he would govern. And, like a soldier appeasing his Lieutenant, I would begin to rattle names off. "_Alabama, Montgomery. Alaska, Juneau. Arizona..."_ _"Phoenix."_ "_Arkansas, Little Rock. California, Sacramento. Colorado...Denver."_ _"Good."_ Though granddad's figure was long and weathered, his mind was unrivaled. He stood something like the old redwood trees in Winston Salem, tall and wise as they spindled judiciously up from the forest floor. Everything about Alcott Penn Sr. was purposeful and methodical. His eyes perpetually squinted behind big, round frames. His clothes were always a neat business professional, a familiar amber two piece and a matching cap. After tipping his fedora off his head, granddad would joke "_If looks are any sign of intelligence, then I must be pretty sharp_" and smile like a magician who'd just revealed his trick. Looking back, I'm sure there were many things that influenced his nature. A suit had never _just_ been a suit in his upbringing and, for a Black man in the 1940s, appearance and education were more than enough to dictate your perceived humanity. Even to exist was defiance. And yet, Granddad and six of his seven siblings worked hard to become licensed educators. The seventh sibling even went on to become the first Black judge in Durham. "_Connecticut, Hartford. Delaware, Dover. Florida, Tallahassee._" _"Yes, _**_Hartford, _**_Connecticut_**_ _**_...Thirman L Milner was Mayor back in 1981 -- first Black mayor in all of New England. He was inspired after hearing Bubba."_ _"Bubba?"_ _"_**_Tsk_**_...Dr. King!"_ _"Like..._**_the_**_ Martin Luther King Jr? Did you know him personally?"_ _"A Morehouse man? Of course I knew him. Keep going from Florida."_ _"F-Florida, Tallahassee. Georgia, Atlanta. Hawaii, Honolulu..."_ Every inch of my grandfather's home was dedicated to his craft of keeping. The floors were lined with cabinets of old parchment, daguerreotype, and newspaper clippings -- he'd organized them cryptically into folders by date and location. Moreover, the patterned walls were laden with map after map, from political to topographical to economic. Any possible free space had been relinquished to the towering shelves of book after book after book. The tattered couch by the mat with its thin plastic covering was like a metaphor to his habit. It seemed to suggest that history lived in our broken, threadbare items. It lived in what's overlooked, the worn down furniture, the things left behind. Even those things should be protected. His work** **was** **a thousand untold stories** **with a thin plastic covering. And he had been training me as his apprentice. _"Idaho, Boise. Illinois, Springfield. Indiana..."_ _"That one's self explanatory."_ _"Indianapolis?"_ _"Good."_ The first time my mom had encouraged granddad to digitize his records, he scoffed at her. She'd brought me along with her on the nine hour drive, purse cluttered with flash drives and a brand new laptop. When she stormed him with the new technology, he made a show of locking himself in his bedroom. "It's easy, Dad. Let me show you! You can scan the photos and organize them on Drive just like you do your cabinets." "Charles Babbage built a computer by hand in 1822. He used steam and a hand crank -- ain't that something? I think the Harwell CADET and LCP-30 is what the nuclear guys were using during the Cold War. Now _that's_ some technological advancement." "I'm not following..." "It's not the same, Penn. Didn't we read George Orwell when you were little? Ray Bradbury? It's just not the same...yeah, it's just not. Your _quick drive_..." "_Flash_ drive..." "Well, your _whatever_ can't keep like I do. I just don't see it." To him, digitizing was like a form of dilution. He was an educator, a trained specialist in the art of archiving, in the art of _remembering_. But computer was just lines upon lines of code. Could a computer convey the nuances of love and grief? Could a computer know to recount the salty Charlotte air after a storm? "Dad, come out. I can add everything to the computer for you -- I just want you to be _connected_. I bought you a laptop." "You barely come to visit, Penn, and you're telling me about being connected?" "Your granddaughter is here too so _don't_ you start with me right now!" "_Oh_...Cheyenne is here?" At this, he opened the door and greeted us with hugs. Before I could blink, he had calmly begun our states and capitals drill, and the matter of a laptop was never brought up again. "_Iowa, Des Moines. Kansas, Topeka. Kentucky, Frankfort. Louisiana, Baton Rouge. Maine, Augusta. Maryland, Annapolis. Massachusetts, Boston. Michigan, Lansing. Minnesota, St Paul. Mississipi, Jackson. Missouri, Jefferson City. Montana, Helena..."_ "_Go on..._" "_Nebraska, Lincoln. Nevada, Carson City. New Hampshire, Concord. New Jersey, Trenton. New Mexico, Santa Fe. New York, Albany. North Carolina, Raleigh. North Dakota..._" "_Bismarck."_ "_Right, Bismarck. Ohio, Columbus. Oklahoma, Oklahoma City. Oregon, Salem. Pennsylvania, Harrisburg. Rhode Island, Providence. South Carolina, Columbia. South Dakota, Pierre..._" "**Alzheimers**..." "Alzheimers?" "Yes, we highly suggest he moves into a specialized care facility." When granddad was first diagnosed with Alzheimers, the doctors said he likely already suffered from late-onset Dementia. Slowly, and then all at once, the last historian in Greenville would forget his habit. It started small, the misplacing of things and faltering of recollection. When we went to visit him at the Raleigh care center, he'd watch us carefully...weary to say the wrong thing, fighting his body for control and then searching that brilliant mind for explanations. "Granddad, I'll start from where we left off! _Tennessee, Nashville. Texas, Austin. Utah, Salt Lake City. Vermont..._" "_Montpelier_! Did you know that's the smallest capital in the United States? James Madison's letters were mistakenly sent there in 1809...he had his own plantation named after that French _ville_. Virginia was full of characters...but _ain't that something_?" "_Virginia, Richmond._" The grip of Alzheimers was rapid, but after his diagnosis, the deterioration was especially relentless. I sometimes wondered if the only thing that had kept my grandfather present was his habit. Perhaps his record keeping had healed his mind temporarily. Perhaps it was difficult to forget when your life was dedicated to remembering. "_Washington, Olympia._" My mom later told me, masking her own despair, that the caregivers didn't think granddad would survive the next few months. Whenever the nurses tried to feed him, he would silently refuse his food. And in a hospital gown, rather than a suit, my grandfather grew to look less and less like himself. His skin was sallow and his watchful eyes had whitened with cataracts. To make matters even worse, the doctors had recently detected malignant cancer in his prostate. I'd heard before that when a tree dies in Winston Salem, its bark will crack first, fighting to protect the softened marrow until the end. Only then, will it branches wither. "_West Virginia, Charleston._" The very last time I saw my granddad, I brought some of his old books and trinkets along with me. "I just told the other nurse I want to be alone. You all are persistent though, I'll give you that. When my granddaughter gets to be your age, I bet she'll be just as stubborn." By now, my mom and I had gotten used to his not remembering us. But it was always harder on my mom than it had been for me -- she had lived a lifetime under his tutelage, while I was still naive enough hope. Understandably, seeing him in such a state broke her. "_Stubborn_..." I laughed thoughtfully, "So I remind you of her? Your granddaughter?" "_Hm_, I'm not sure. But she's very smart. Are you a good student?" "I am. I know all the states and capitals by heart, actually. My granddad taught them to me." "Oh, do you_..._That's very good!" He complimented, an impressed expression lighting his face. "_West Virginia_...?" He asked carefully, testing me. But I had been a historian's apprentice. I already knew it all. "_Charleston_." "_Hmm, good. Wisconsin?_" "_Madison_. You know...Eston Hemmings, the accomplished son of Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemmings, moved to Madison in 1852." "Oh, _very good!_ Yes, _yes_..._ain't that something" _a smile lit his face as he eagerly nodded, "How about..." "_Wyoming_." I smiled, bracing myself against a wave of emotion. I knew Slzheimers wasn't my battle to fight. But I couldn't help but wonder how my grandfather protected books for decades that, in turn, could no longer protect him. What hardcover would preserve his untold stories? Which photos would capture his classic charm? Who would be his library's keeper? "_Wyoming_?" He repeated in confusion. "_Yes_...Wyoming. What's the capital of Wyoming? _I can't remember_..." I beamed at him, feigning confusion. My heart thundered in my chest as he looked up considerately. "_Oh_, that's too easy..." He chuckled. "That state capital was my granddaughter's favorite -- they have the same name. _Cheyenne._" After a pause, my granddad's face glazed briefly over. His eyes squinted and his muscles tensed. The hospital bed creaked as he sat upbruptly up. "_Ch-Cheyenne?_" He repeated. And the tears poured like a Charlotte hurricane.