Uncle Bill, survivor of the Johnstown flood, the Great Depression, and a railway accident in his childhood that left him with half a right foot. He aspired to become a dance band musician, playing trumpet or sax. Wanted, too, to tour on the PGA circuit, in the money, sharing jokes with his golfing buddies. Longed to roam about the country, tracing ancestors.

What he did was raise two sons. At first alone, then with the help of Aunt Ethel. Outwardly they had it all: good jobs, house, insurance, retirement. Friends, hobbies, cars, boat--even a travel trailer that ought to have provided a means to track those far-flung relatives who possessed tidbits of family history; instead the Little Bullet (tin can to Ethel) became a bone of contention to separate wills.

Years passed fast then faster. Boys grew up. Stepsons grew middle-aged. Grandchildren and their children spread over several states. Calls on birthdays, cards on holidays, presents in the mail, visits every few years. Photo albums filled, were stacked and stored, moldering. All the while, the Yearbook kept pace.

From table to shelf, inside a trunk, wedged into a packing box amid golf balls and stray sheet music. Sifting ever downward beneath the busy clutter of life. Whose hands used to hold these memories? Whose eyes lingered, teary or merry? Whose heart beat strong with love or hate at the sight of the face on a page where only a name remains?

First went the little details: where are the keys? what is their phone number? when did you tell me that? Next lost: devilish notes that switched places on the staff, sure grasp of fingers on the beloved tools, steady step across the green turf (despite the loss of more than toes), the powerful swing that won a round of beer and cheers in the clubhouse. Then, confidence to drive the Buick, write a check, plan for an ever more frightening future. Suspicions gathered, overwhelmed. Finally, stew on the curtains, pills scattered between the recliners, a shoe bounced off the ceiling fan, accusations and terror drowning out the dingdingding and clapping on "Wheel of Fortune."

911 -- Come with us, sir. You're not well.

A strange place with echoing halls, constricting walls. People never met, no friends, someone else's bed, not his shoes. A strange young man enters, removes his beard with someone else's shaver. A strange woman's telephone voice speaks in his ear. How are you feeling, Bill? Irene came to visit me today. I got a card from Helen. Do you need anything? I'll call again tonight.

He searches for the Yearbook, for faces he knows. He remembers his own smiling "mug" in black and white. Recalls grand times with brothers and friends and co-workers. Dreams at night of hitting a golf ball in a high arc, television cameras panning, for a hole-in-one--or at least a birdie.

Who was that old woman on the phone? Why did they tell him she wanted to talk to him? He didn't know her, couldn't think of a thing to say to her. If she called again, he'd hang up. Nuisance calls wasted his time. Was the phone bill paid? Where is that check book? The bank's made a mistake again. Got to go down and straighten them out. Do it, right after lunch.

I salvaged the Yearbook out of the boxes Aunt Ethel and his sisters have readied for the thrift store, and was startled at that hole in the page. When? Who? Why? I dare not ask, and shall never know. Cousins have no idea what is happening to keepsakes older than either of them. The Father's Day gifts, engraved brass plaques, fading birthday cards. Shirts and trousers and hats worn to a familiar shape and softness in those not-so-distant days when Uncle Bill thought nothing of taking a drive down the boulevard to pick out a new pliers or feeds for his clarinet.

Now he has to be taken to the bathroom, reminded to eat with his spoon, placed in front of the televised tournament. Aunt Ethel is having the house decorated. The activity gives her something to occupy her thoughts. She is through with memories, with mementos. Carrying the useless Yearbook, I make my way home. Tomorrow the trash men come in their great, gear-grinding truck.