January 2nd was my father’s 104th birthday. My father, of course, was not here to celebrate. He celebrated his 42nd birthday and died five months later.  

For years, my brother, sister, and I would call each other on Daddy’s birthday, just to remember. They had stories to share that I did not have; I was only eighteen months old when he died. I don’t remember when we started the tradition of having a steak on his birthday, but each of us, whether in Wauchula, Kissimmee, or South Carolina, would eat a steak in honor of Daddy. I suppose other people might hoist a beer in memory of their father, but steak is better. 

My brother and sister are gone now, and I am the only one left who remembers January 2nd is an important day. No one told me that a hard part of growing old is being the last one to remember. My stepfather, Lawrence (Who was my father’s nephew. We are a complicated, Southern family), was the last of his siblings to survive. He told me he felt like the last of the Mohicans. Now I know what he meant. Even though I have no memories of my own, I have memories of memories.   

Most everyone is gone now, the people who remember my father bulldogging a steer in Avon Park in 1.8 seconds. Google says the world record is 2.4 seconds. My Daddy did this in 1943. No one remembers him winning All-Round Cowboy at the Arcadia Rodeo. In those days, the cowboys used to race each other in the 40-yard dash and bet on who would win. My Daddy was sneaky fast. He was so big no one believed he was fast. But he would win the race every time. I think my cousins Marcus and Ross and me are the last ones who remember the stories of how fast Daddy was. 

I try to explain to my children why the ranch means so much to me. While Southerners, in general, are obsessed with owning land (from Gone with the Wind:  Gerald O'Hara: “Do you mean to tell me, Katie Scarlett O'Hara, that Tara, that land doesn't mean anything to you? Why, land is the only thing in the world worth workin' for, worth fightin' for, worth dyin' for, because it's the only thing that lasts.”), the ranch is a physical remembrance of my father. When I ride the pasture, I remember he rode that same land. The cow pens are where he wanted them to be because he thought his sister would sell him her land. He was the one who set out the groves in their rows. The land is the tie between my father and me.  

No one lives forever. While I am not planning on dying anytime soon, as the old-timers used to say, my time will come. I pray to live long enough to tell my grandson some stories about his great-grandfather. I don’t expect him to remember my father’s birthday, but I hope he will remember some of the stories. That is one reason I write some of these columns, in hopes that my grandchildren might read them one day. I hope memories of my father will not die. Maybe I feel that way because his life was cut so short; surely, his memories deserve to live on. 

I wonder if that is why we make headstones out of marble and bronze. Is it our way of crying out, “Don’t forget me?”  Isn’t that why rich people give millions away to have something named for themselves? Aren’t they saying, “Hey, I was here! I made a lot of money! Remember me!” 

When Jesus was dying on the cross, one of the men who was being crucified with him made a simple request: “Lord, remember me when you enter your Kingdom.”  He wasn’t asking to be saved from a horrible death. He wasn’t asking to go to heaven. He simply did not want to be forgotten. He wanted someone to remember that he lived, he breathed, he laughed. Maybe he even ran a race or two.   

Jesus told him, “Today, you will be with me in paradise.”   Jesus saw in the man’s request enough faith that he was saved. I think about how busy Jesus was that day. He was dying for all the sins that were ever committed, that were being committed, and that would be committed all at once. He was in pain. He knew after his death there would be work to do: descending into hell, getting ready to be resurrected. But in his last hours, he made a promise to a man that he would remember him and that remembrance would lead him to Paradise. 

I often visit New Hope Cemetery, where my people are buried. When I stand by my father’s grave (probably the only headstone in America with the name “Kong” on it), I think about Jesus and the thief on the cross. And I have hope. Even if everyone else forgets, God remembers.