Posted tagged ‘memories’

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“Memory is the diary we all carry about with us.”

May 21, 2013

The day is cloudy and has a bit of a chill, a long sleeve shirt sort of day. Everything is really still and quiet. I like a day this way. Sun all the time makes for a dry lawn and garden while clouds all the time make for gloom so I’m happy with a mix of days. Yesterday was a perfectly lovely day so I don’t mind today’s clouds.

A chickadee is building a nest in one of my bird houses or at least I think so as I have seen her going in and out of the house which is a flamingo with swaying legs. It is pink as flamingos are and has a small opening, perfect for a chickadee. I’ll keep an eye.

Dandelions get a bum rap. They appear in the lawn and are dug up or summarily destroyed. They were the first flowers I ever gave my mother. Nothing so beautiful could possibly have been anything but a flower to me. Dandelions reminded me of the sun: round and bright yellow. My mother always took my gift, the bouquet of dandelions, with profuse thanks and put them in a vase in the middle of the table. She never saw them as weeds. They were a gift.

Before I visit my sister, I go up the hill to the house where, other than this house, I have lived the longest time. I know every part of that house and can close my eyes and see each room. The kitchen was small with only a little counter space, a corner which barely fit the table and chairs and a small stove on the same wall as the table. The fridge was beside the back door, my mother’s bugaboo. The door was wooden and painted green and in the summer had a screen instead of a storm door. My sisters, who played in the yard most summers, went out that back door which always slammed behind them. That drove my mother crazy. Her warning, “Don’t slam the door,” always seemed just a bit too late, drowned out by the sound of the slam. For some reason my mother and that door are a strong memory from that house.

I have this mind which seems to hold on to so many things though words and some names are beginning to escape me. I have to think long and hard to remember some of them. The other day I was trying to come up with Pierce Brosnan, don’t ask me why as I don’t remember, and I was with a friend who couldn’t remember either. I gave her hints: he was Remington Steele and James Bond. Neither one of us came up with his name. In the background, while we were talking, music from the mid 60’s was playing, and we knew every word. Once I told a friend how many traffic lights she would encounter on her route through Boston. I just closed my eyes and drove the route in my head. I remember odd things of little importance, but sometimes I forget why I am in the kitchen or I lose forever that small list I thought I’d memorized. Even mnemonics don’t help as much any more. I sometimes forget what they mean. I do, however, have a hold on so many past memories, long ago memories, the best memories like the dandelions and the back door.

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“The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.”

March 23, 2013

When I woke up, it was closer to afternoon than morning. I suspect it was the combination of pills I’m taking for my back. Gracie and Fern were still with me, both asleep. I imagine they too had excuses for sleeping so late, but I have no idea what they are. They don’t share. It took me a while to get out of bed, but I yelped less than yesterday. I guess that’s a barometer of sorts for my back getting better.

The sun is out and the sounds of drips are in stereo from the front and back of my house. Mostly they are falling from the roof onto the deck. The snow is quickly melting. I can see grass again and the streets are perfectly clear. The sky has more blue than it has clouds so I’m thinking it’s a lovely day. I filled the bird feeders yesterday, and they are now fully occupied. The woodpecker seems to be enjoying the new suet which is a far better alternative to the shingles on my house he was pecking yesterday.

The other day I thought of Mrs. McGaffigan. She used to live in the huge house on the corner at the bottom of my street. She was the other half of our party line. My brother and I used to try to listen to her conversations, but we usually giggled and got caught. She was never happy about eavesdropping and was brusque about our hanging up right away. We usually did but once in a while we only pretended so we could keep listening. I remember picking up the phone to make a call and hearing Mrs. McGaffigan. She’d tell me to hang up as she was already on the line as if I couldn’t hear her. I don’t remember exactly how we knew which calls were ours, but it had something to do with the ringing. Those were the days of clunky black phones and letters as part of the phone numbers.

I remember my mother making sure I had a dime when I went out with friends in case I needed to call. Phone booths were everywhere. I never walked by one without checking the coin slot. Sometimes I’d get lucky and find a dime. In the rain, a phone booth was a great place to wait out the storm for a while. Two and sometimes three of us would jam ourselves inside. We’d be dry but none of us could move. A phone booth always looked kind of cool in the dark when the light went on as you shut the door. I didn’t like it when the booths started to disappear and the phones with small shelves took their places. Now, though, pay phones have pretty much disappeared, and soon enough no one will even remember they existed.

I have this image. It’s a room filled with all the stuff from my childhood, like phone booths, rabbit ears, skate keys and bottle tops on shoe bottoms, and one by one a piece disappears and no one notices.

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“The only real treasure is in your head. Memories are better than diamonds and nobody can steal them from you”

December 2, 2012

When I let Gracie out, it felt warm, but the papers aren’t here yet so I haven’t been outside. For some reason I woke up at 6. I can’t even remember the last time I did that. That early was too much for Gracie. She is already back to sleep on the couch. The sky is lighter now, but it’s still grey. What a surprise!

One side of my cellar is filled with Christmas decorations. For a while I collected really ugly 50’s decorations, those ceramic pieces we all had as kids and plastic light up Santas with holes in the back for lights. I remember my mother had four ceramic Santa mugs. Each handle was a letter and all of the handles together spelled out Noel. I found a set just like that and was thrilled. It was like finding an old friend. I have Santa head salt and pepper shakers and several angels wearing red dresses. They’re holding ceramic candles. All of the angels are blondes. I have a whole village of cardboard houses, some with intact windows, some without. I have a Tom and Jerry serving set and a couple for egg nog. They too are from the 50’s. In an antique store the other day I saw similar pieces to ones from my collection. They were expensive. Those ugly decorations are now treasured antiques.

My tree is hung with memories. Many of my ornaments have stories attached. A few hung on our family tree every year. My mother gave each of us some of those ornaments a long while back, and I treasure them. Some ornaments are from different trips I’ve made, and I have a few from Ghana. When my friend Michele came to visit last June, she gave me some ornaments she’d had since we were in Ghana together. I can’t wait to hang them on the tree for the first time this year. They’ll be memories of Michelle and Kumasi and hot water. I know the last one seems strange, but I remember how amazed I was when I stayed with her and found out she had hot water straight out of the shower. I have ornaments my mother stitched for me. My favorite is a K with the three kings on it. One year I made name ornaments for my whole family out of blocks. I have the one I  made for my mother and I put it on my tree every year. She loved Christmas, and by putting it on the tree, I keep her in mine.

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“If things are getting easier, maybe you’re headed downhill.”

August 7, 2012

Mother Nature turned off the humidity switch early last evening and cool, dry air blew through the opened windows and doors. The evening felt glorious. This morning is the same, simply beautiful. The sunlight is sharp and a breeze is blowing. It’s a day to be outside.

My car got dinged in a parking lot a few weeks ago. The car before this one I had for ten years, and it got dinged only once. This car I haven’t had but a few months, and it already needs cosmetic surgery. It went into the shop yesterday to get pretty again so I’m without a car until some time tomorrow. On Sunday I filled the larder and bought bird and pet food so I’m set to be house-bound. Mind you, I’m not complaining. I’m happy to be stuck here. You know how much I love not getting dressed and sitting around in my cozy clothes. I’ll do the usual wash up and tooth brushing and maybe I’ll even comb my hair.

My trip is less than three weeks away. I have my visas, the luggage I bought last year, mosquito wipes, anti-malarial pills and a full iPad of books. The only thing left is new underwear. My mother would be pleased.

I bought pencils, sharpeners and crayons to take with me as gifts for the local primary school in the village where I’ll be staying. Guests should never come empty-handed. Franciska, with whom I’m staying, has yet to leave the US for Ghana. She wants to be there ahead of me so she can tidy up her house and clear the yard of grass and weeds. It’s been two years since she was last home.

It still amazes me that I am back in contact with all these former students of mine, and that over the years they never forgot me just as I had never forgotten them. My memories of those days in Bolga are bright and vivid, and they have always brought me joy.

Soon enough I’ll be making more memories. I feel ever so lucky though Franciska would say I am blessed.

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“Where we love is home – home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.”

March 29, 2012

The weather prediction is for cloudy and maybe rainy through Sunday. A couple of sunless days don’t bother me, but a string of them makes me lethargic. I loll around the house with little ambition. A sunny day gets me active and the floors get washed, the cabinets cleaned and the world looks to be a better place. Later, I’ll drag myself upstairs to shower and make my bed. They will give me some small sense of accomplishment.

We lived in what was called the project. The houses were wooden duplexes, not brick and not high-rises, and there were eleven or twelve of them on Prospect Street and up the hill around a small rotary which made the street a circle. Each side of the duplexes mirrored the other side. We had a kitchen, living room and three bedrooms. The cellar was huge, and it was where we often played and where we stored our bikes and where my mother’s washing machine stood. The big, black oil tank was against the wall on one side. I don’t remember where the furnace was. All the backyards faced each other, and all of them had below ground garbage bins with metal tops right beside the stairs and lines for laundry, three for each family. I have the memory of white sheets blowing on those lines. My mother had one of those hanging cloth clothespin bags. She moved it down each line as she hung the laundry. The backdoor was wooden, and it always slammed in the winter when the storm windows were on it. Our house was white with green trim, all of the houses were. My father kept care of his lawn and the front flower garden beside the stairs. A giant grassy hill stretched across the backyard and separated us from the duplexes on the top of it. Each of the fathers in all the duplexes facing the hill mowed his part of the grass on the hill. We used to roll down the hill so we’d get dizzy.  I remember a slip and slide one summer that everyone used.

Only families with children could live in the duplexes and one parent had to be a veteran. We moved to our first duplex, one with two bedrooms, in 1951. We had lived in the city, in a high-rise brick apartment building. After my sister was born, we were granted a larger duplex, and we moved down the hill from 37 Washington Ave to 16, and that’s where we stayed until 1964. All of my childhood memories were made on Washington Ave.

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“May you never forget what is worth remembering, nor ever remember what is best forgotten”

March 18, 2012

Today is a lovely day, but I think I have a cold coming on so I’m lying low. My throat is scratchy and my body aches, but I really don’t feel all that bad yet so I figure I’m nipping it in the bud as Barney Fife used to say.

I am late today as I slept late and my usual Sunday call to my sister was for two hours. We talked about my grandparents and where they used to live and what we remembered. My mother’s parents lived for a long while in an apartment in East Boston. My sister remembers that on each side of the front steps was a decorative granite piece which was a perfect slide though it was a really short ride. I remember far more. The hallway went from one end of the apartment to the other. It always seemed dark to me as the bedroom doors off the hall were often closed. Stephen King could have used that hallway as a setting for one of his scarier novels. At one of  that hall was the kitchen. The living room and a small TV room were at the other end. I remember the kitchen was bright with windows, and the deep, white porcelain sink stood on pipes which were hidden by a skirt my grandmother had made. The table was near the windows.

At the other end of the hall was the living room which had a giant heater near the back wall. I remember it always made a hissing sound. That was where my great-grandfather’s rocking chair was and where he always sat. He was big and scary to me. He never talked to any of us grandchildren, but he always yelled at us to get out of his house. I think he was senile and had no idea how scary he was. We used to stand in the doorway for a minute to get up our courage then we’d run by him for all we were worth to get to the TV room. He’d yell but we knew he’d never leave his chair so we were safe.

It’s funny what we remember. The day-to-day things fade, but the extraordinary, the strange and the wonderful pieces stay longer. I think we’re lucky that way.

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“We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.”

November 19, 2011

Streets and backyards are covered with brown oak leaves, recent victims of the last three days of winds. Pine needles in the front yard cover the lawn and garden. My world is drab and messy.

Today Miss Gracie is six years old. After I finish here, we have to go to Agway for dog food so she’ll get to pick a couple of gifts and a treat or two. Gracie won’t think this too special as it happens almost every time we go to Agway. Dogs are meant to be spoiled.

I sent out my Thanksgiving cards today and they got me thinking. Thanksgiving is the least pretentious of all the holidays. No colored lights gleam in the darkness, no special decorations or costumes or new spring clothes are any part of the day. Christmas has Santa and Easter has its bunny, but Thanksgiving just has itself which is more than enough. It is the one holiday without the hustle and bustle of days of preparation. It is a day when we can take time to remember the people we love and the people we have loved. We get to be thankful for being together, and we get to share a sumptuous meal. I think the sharing of food is one of the most intimate moments which brings people together.

When my Ghanaian student, now a woman in her fifties, was here we all sat and ate a Ghanaian dinner. It was the sharing of a culture, of my memories and experiences and of the bond which has held strong between Francisca and me despite the forty years since we last saw each other. It was more than a meal: it was a celebration of friendship and family.

On Thanksgiving, most of us have a turkey at center stage. We cook foods we’ve eaten since childhood, foods which connect the years, strengthen the bonds between family and friends and touch all of our memories. I can’t imagine a Thanksgiving without green bean casserole or Tony’s grandmother’s cole slaw or my mother’s squash dish. This year, as on every Thanksgiving Day, I will be thankful for the years of memories, for the gifts from this one unpretentious day.

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“Memory is the treasury and guardian of all things.”

November 10, 2011

Yesterday was what I always think of as a Cape morning in the fall, foggy and warm. Today is also warm but overcast. It must have rained during the night as the streets are still wet along the edges. Gracie has barely been in the house the last couple of days except she does take a break for her morning nap. That’s a dog after my own heart.

Gracie and I have a few errands this morning, and all of them are practical, but I think I need a bit of whimsy. Maybe I’ll stop in one of those wonderful small shops tucked away on Route 6A and maybe I’ll find a treasure. One must always be on the lookout for a treasure.

My elementary school turns 100 next year. I’m hoping I get to visit. I have wonderful memories of that school, of the smell of the wood, of the cloakrooms, the tall windows and the niches in the walls along the staircase where a few statues of saints held sway. By the time I got there, the wood had darkened over the years and taken on the character which comes with age. The stairs and the old wooden floors in the classrooms creaked. The wooden desks were the sort with a space below the top where you kept your books, and you had to bend over, look and take out a book or two before you found the one you wanted. The top of the desk had a hole for an inkwell and indentation all the way across the top where you put your pencils. I suspect those desks are long gone and have been replaced with the sort where the top comes up so it’s easy to find what you want. I’m sorry for that, but I know time takes its toll on all the places held suspended in our memories.

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“Souvenirs are perishable; fortunately, memories are not”

October 6, 2011

The house was really chilly this morning. I was nestled under the covers, and Fern and Gracie were right beside me sharing their warmth. When I came downstairs, I decided to turn on the heat for just a while to warm up the house. The heat didn’t go on. I cursed. Nothing riles me more than stuff not working, stuff I have to call an expert to come and fix. I wish my family was more diverse. I think every family should have an electrician, a plumber and a generalist who can fix most anything else. It should be a rule. I know this will cost me big just for the guy to walk through the front door. I suppose finding out before it got really cold was a lucky break, but then people break arms and legs so that word has its downside.

Summer is making a return engagement this weekend. Each day will be in the 70’s. I’m thinking it’s  a farewell present.

My house is filled with stuff which has meaning only for me. The living room is mostly Ghana. A green basket I brought back home with me forty years ago sits under a table. Gold weights are on another table. Next to them is the top of a linguist staff and an old oware board leans against the same table. Finger bells are on the hearth. You put a round piece on each thumb and a bell on one finger of each hand to play it. I bought it in the market. I have paintings from Ghana. A couple were done by the art teacher at my school, Yao Blisah (though I don’t guarantee the spelling of his name).

In here are bags made from Bolga leather, a distinctive red and black leather still used. You can see boys working with the leather in some of my recent pictures. On the wall I have an old Bolga hat made of straw with a tie of that red and black leather. It’s a funky looking hat with straw straight up all over the woven part. I have an adrinka cloth my school gave me when I left. It is my prize Ghanaian possession.

Lately I’ve been thinking about putting together an album of pictures of all of these mementos. I’ll write stories about why each piece of Ghana is dear to me. I figure maybe they’ll become dear to someone else too.

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“Small children disturb your sleep, big children your life.”

July 11, 2011

For me it’s still early, and I’ve already been busy. First was a blood test which meant no coffee when I woke up-a painful way to start the day. Then I got yelled at to slow down by an elderly lady who had turned the corner halfway into my lane such that I had to stop or be hit. She looked panicked. Next was the pharmacy then Dunkin’ Donut’s where I ordered an iced coffee with equal and cream. She repeated my order: hot, black and medium. Slowly, distinctly and loudly I tried again. I figured take away the loudly and it was like practicing Ghanaian English for my trip. Such was my morning.

It’s a deck day no question about it. I have a few things to do this afternoon, but I’m staying outside and lolling for as long as I can. Today makes me grateful I’m retired.

My house has no shades. I wanted it that way. When I was a kid, my mother put the shades down all over the house on hot summer days. She was trying to keep the house cool, but it was always dark and cave-like to me, cooler definitely but still cave-like. The kitchen was the only room with light because the back door was always open to the screen door. I remember that screen door perfectly and can still see and place it in my mind’s eye. It was wooden and painted dark green. It never shut slowly but always slammed. The screen was one piece and was replaced every fall by the storm door which shut more slowly because of the weight of the glass. We never walked out the screen door; we always ran and it always slammed.

I loved our house in South Yarmouth. It was close to everything, and my brother and I had our own rooms. We were on the first floor while my parents and my sisters were on the second. The house had a dormer added later so the stairs were behind a door and couldn’t be seen from the living room. That also meant my brother and I couldn’t be heard. He sneaked out a lot. I didn’t. Most times, he was lucky enough to get home before my father woke up. Once he didn’t and all hell broke loose. My father yelled at me figuring I was a co-conspirator, but I wasn’t as I had no idea where he’d gone. I only vaguely remembered hearing him leave through his window. I was surprised my father didn’t think to nail his windows shut because in a short while my brother was back to his nighttime escapades.

I always think it interesting the memories we keep.

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