I Remember: The Early Years (Under 20)

This collective list was created on Wednesday, February 21, 2018, by people who dropped by Sunny Days of Ithaca, between 2 and 4 in the afternoon, to participate in an event in the Shore Yourself Up Workshop Series. Thanks to Deirdre Kurzweil for making this all happen!

Below you will find excerpts from written Memory Lists, as well as some extended memories that were shared orally.


I remember . . . .

standing in front of the mirror wearing rubber eyeballs; locking my bike outside my daycare, using my new pink lock; watching snow fall in April; sliding a note under the door for the new cats, rather than coming out myself; making peanut butter cookies (because why not?)

    The cats were named Antonio and Panther. They fought with each other. I hated that. So I locked myself in my bedroom. Mom asked “Want to come out?” I slid a note under the door: “NO!”

I remember . . . .

collecting leaves to place in my father’s casket; singing for my whole tribe; timidly attending my first political rally; eating tabouleh with no context whatsoever; an orange-lit concrete stairway on a cold night

    It was my first job, the summer after my father died. I was helping one of my teachers build a house. He offered me tabouleh for lunch and I ate it, though it seemed like such a strange thing to call “food.”

I remember . . . .

a stillness in the air, unlike anything I felt before or since

    The sky turned green, the air was still, and then it came: a tornado. It whipped up the fence and carried it away.

I remember . . . .

my first pair of eyeglasses, with red and white striped candy-cane frames — mother said I looked adorable — which was the last thing I wanted to be; having trouble telling the difference between pink and yellow; walking along the beach collecting seashells, thinking someone must have come along earlier to paint them

    It might be a cliche but when I put my new glasses on I could see the leaves on the trees, and it was a bit disorienting for a minute.

I remember . . . .

stepping on snails in the summer when we spent time at Unity House (a “labor resort” operated by the Ladies Garment Workers’ Union); thinking my mother was the nicest mother (to other people, not always to me); the snow fort created by city snow plows, at the corner of Rodney and Barringer Streets in Philadelphia; the time our dog, Cookie, tried to bite a neighbor, and tore his pants; the tension in the neighborhood, because so many of the men were angry with each other and they expressed their rage openly; playing Hide-and-Go-Seek late into the summer nights, until it got dark — 50 kids or more; the constant stream of kittens scampering down from the cemetery

    We weren’t allowed to play with the kittens, our parents thought they were diseased because they didn’t have shots. But one of the mothers took some kittens to get shots and then my mother let me keep one. Later she said no, I couldn’t keep it. I threw the kitten at Risa G. This could be a dream, but it has stuck in my memory.
 
I remember . . . .

jumping up and down on the bed, with my sister, the night The Beatles were on the Ed Sullivan show; feeling safe every time I walked into the school library, which was always empty except for me and the librarian; that time my father took my sister and me to a Chinese restaurant for lunch, and he fell asleep at the table, and we had to walk back to school by ourselves

    My dad ordered shrimp in lobster sauce, spare ribs, pork fried rice, chicken chow mein. My sister and I ordered egg rolls. We didn’t eat the vegetables that were stuffed inside the rolls, we only ate the outside of the rolls. We loved anything that was fried.

I remember . . . .

blanket saddles, clothesline stirrups, jump rope reins — we rode off on our porch-rail horses, for many exciting adventures; the divine scent of Grandma’s homemade bread; my momma’s tears when I cut off both of my front ringlets; taking long walks across the three knolls to find wild flowers in the woods — then the wild dash home to get them into water before they wilted

    I had to stand still for such a long time while my mother fussed over me and pinned my hair into corkscrew curls. I was mortified by those sissy corkscrews. I wanted two thick braids like my sister had. So I cut off the front two curls. But then I was mortified that I made my mother cry because of what I had done.
 
I remember . . . .

living all my years, under the age of 20, in the same house I was born in; having a horse named Horse, and a dog named Pup, and all the cats who didn’t get stepped on by Horse were named Kitty

I remember . . . .

the old British couple who lived next door to us when we vacationed in Maine, and the ocean was our backyard

    Every day at 3 o’clock they served gin & tonic. Then they had clams and lobster for dinner.

I remember . . . .

collecting bottle-caps, coins, baseball cards; dancing to “Boy Bands” alone in my room; knowing my own Little League baseball statistics; going to see NSYNC in concert, in Hershey, Pennsylvania; figuring things out for myself

I remember . . . .

raindrops hitting my face through the open window as my mother drove us to Bolton’s Donut Shop; a mecca full of books, chosen for color and myth, hand-picked by D. G. at the Corner Bookstore; listening to stories while sitting inside the colorful castle, in our public library at Titus Flats

I remember . . . .

waking up very early and going outside to watch the sun rise; the pleasure of having alone time with my mother (I was one of 5 kids); the peaceful times spent in the cool basement when it was hot hot hot above ground; coming home from school one day and seeing my mother watching TV while she ironed — it was the Army-McCarthy Hearings; my kindergarten teacher also taught all my siblings . . . and my father!

    I was given a special gift after I had my tonsils taken out: a Ginny doll. My mother made doll clothes for Ginny, out of ribbons.

    My godmother did laundry for a living. It was an honor when she asked me to help her iron handkerchiefs: precision was very important.

I remember . . . .

my mother passed away when I was 16 years old; there were little kids and big kids on our block — I was a little kid until one day I was a big kid; we had a willow tree in our front yard, my mother climbed up once, and another time my brother fell out of the tree and broke his arm; we played kickball in the street, with my ball, and I would take it home if people fought; visiting my grandparents for Monday night dinners and always bringing home a big box of leftovers for the week

I remember . . . .

my mother always said there were no calories in a broken cookie, so she’d throw bags of cookies on the floor and stomp on them



THANK YOU to all these contributors:

Barbara Kane Lewis
Barbara Regenspan
Carolyn Clark
Clara Weber
Deirdre Kurzweil
Jules Hojnowski
Mary Louise Church
Matthew McDonald
Patti Meyers
Susan Koon
Timothy Weber
Zee Zahava