I call being in my nineties (a nonagenarian) My Last Chapter. The preceding chapters were interesting and worth reading, or worth living. Those were years of curiosity, enthusiasm, hopefulness, energy, and optimism. Hardly the way I feel now. But the memories of my childhood years keep me going; keep me smiling; keep the lines from showing up when I look in the mirror.
Momma was always trying to convert my mousy straight hair into bouncing Shirley Temple curls. Sometimes, wrapping locks of my hair with strips of fabric dipped in sugar water would succeed. Mostly, she would resort to the hot curling iron. This brings back the memory of the odor of scorched hair. I remember singing and tap dancing like Shirley to “On the Good Ship, Lollipop.” “See Momma, I’m as talented as Shirley Temple.” I wore the clothing that Momma handmade, the design stolen from my drawn copy of the one worn by the mannequin in the dress shop on Southern Blvd. Love at first sight that maroon velvet dress.
Memories of ice skating on the pond in Crotona Park have stayed with me all these years. We were too poor to purchase new skates so for many winters, I made do with hand-me-down black racer skates. My next-door neighbor worked in Macy’s and there she bought white figure skates. After trying to enjoy the sport, she gave up and bequeathed them to me. While I never became Sonja Henie, I did learn to skate backwards and could gracefully spin. Wow!!! Spinning on white figure skates with a Macy’s label on the blade!!!
Summers were spent in the Catskills on a farm with cows, chickens, fresh grown vegetables, corn picked from their tall stalks. Cucumbers honored momma’s small garden patch. These cukes would end up in large jugs, fermenting in briny water in anticipation of becoming treasured sour pickles. Momma could compete with Jake, the famous pickling king of Jennings Street. Poppa’s freshly picked blueberries would be baked into a pie. The scarred apples blanketing the orchard were waiting to be cooked into applesauce. The most exalted farm item was the rusty black cast iron pump. Move the heavy handle up and down and it would spew forth the most delicious, purest clearest, coldest water.
The cement sidewalks in the Bronx were my city playground. Here, I met with my friends to cut paper dolls, play ball, jump rope, and find teen age romance with the Clinton High school neighborhood boys.
I am blessed to have such positive memories of my idyllic childhood days.
Reminiscing keeps me young at heart.
If I should survive to one hundred and five, Look at all I derive out of being alive.
- Lyric from Young at Heart by Carolyn Leigh
