We started rememberin‘ one time, trying to figure out how old I was—I can remember back just a few years more’n he can, so I’m not much older,
when you take off the fact that men can’t remember as well as women.
“What’s your birthday, Cal?” “I just have it on Christmas, it’s easier to remember that way—I don’t have a real birthday.”
“But Cal,” Jem protested, “you don’t look even near as old as Atticus.”
“Colored folks don’t show their ages so fast,” she said. “Maybe because they can’t read. Cal, did you teach Zeebo?”
“Yeah, Mister Jem. There wasn’t a school even when he was a boy. I made him learn, though.”
Zeebo was Calpurnia’s eldest son. If I had ever thought about it, I would have known that Calpurnia was of mature years—
Zeebo had half-grown children—but then I had never thought about it.
Did you teach him out of a primer, like us?” I asked.
“No, I made him get a page of the Bible every day, and there was a book Miss Buford taught me out of—bet you don’t know where I got it,” she said.
We didn’t know. Calpurnia said, “Your Granddaddy Finch gave it to me.”
“Were you from the Landing?” Jem asked. “You never told us that.”
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