I visited with my late mom's last surviving siblings, three sisters, twins 79 years old and one who is 87. One of the twins told me Grandpa courted Grandma on his horse.
I can't even remember which one said it, but the conversation went like this:
Oh that is not true!
Daddy never had a horse.
When he was young he did. Mom told me.
Mom would have told me. I'm the oldest, and I never heard that.
Aw, you're nuts!
My male cousin, who is my age, and I looked at one another. As they argued among themselves, I said to him, "Can you imagine the noise level with six of them at 5206 Plomo?"
At once, all of my aunts stopped talking over one another when they heard the address.
Hey, I lived at 5206.
I did, too.
Of course you did, that was Mom and Daddy's house.
Aw, you're all nuts.
No I'm not. We grew up at 5206 Plomo.
By the time I left, I felt like I had spent a day back in the classroom. But I did learn that:
You better not put any notice in the paper about me when I die. I don't want any service at all.
I want a big and fancy funeral.
Oh not me, cremate me and be done with it.
I wanted to shout, "You're killing me!"
But since they are Italian and German, I stood up and put my hands on my wide hips and then did the hand motion for them to come along, so we could go out to lunch.
Not much old history learned, but a lot of repeat history.