Several Old Columns Pt 3: My mother walks me down Memory Lane

One of my mother’s now-treasured columns (re the Thirties) from January, 1993 ended abruptly in my opinion.


["Hey, I want to hear more about Great-uncle Arthur": photos GH]

“We could listen to old scratchy records on the Victrola and when the singer began to drag out his words, it was time to wind up the machine again.”

Maybe I was just ready for more, that’s all.

When she earlier mentions that her first pair of skates, received when she was 14, were “not white but I was thrilled just the same,” I stepped onto Memory Lane with her.


["Mother used 'Memory Lane' as a heading on many columns"]

I wasn’t thrilled to wear a black pair of figure skates for a few weeks (“The picks will kill me!”) because my friends wore hockey skates. Real skates.

We experienced real winters too.

My mother writes, “Winters were different when we were children because the snow came earlier and lasted longer. The weather seemed more stable; you could depend on it staying the same for a week or two, instead of changing every day so.”

Climate instability now has a name. Climate instability. Or climate change if you prefer.

She continues:“We sat near the stoves on cold winter evenings and read or played games of cards, sometimes popping a large bowl of popcorn. Once in a while mother would make a pan of fudge.”

About the reading, cards, popcorn and fudge. My own memories are almost exactly identical.

Card games were a blood sport when I was a kid. Mother added a line near the end of the article that put the two of us side by side on Memory Lane.

“Our own children also loved to play cards on summer holidays and the noise (there were 5 of us: Dad, Mom and Grandma Catton made a full house for Crazy Eights or Hearts) was ear-splitting, with laughter, disagreements (she’s being very kind), triumphant cries, and pouting because “You always win”.

I would imagine that any story a parent leaves behind would produce the same result - a trip down Memory Lane.


["Just scratching the surface"]

I’m happy to know I have more treasures to curl up with and perhaps share with you.

I also know, since both parents wrote numerous stories and columns, I’m just scratching the surface with this small bagful that was left in the mail.

I’m rich with treasure.

***

Try writing a few stories of your own past life.

Nobody will believe you about the '60s and your orange and black 'wear-like-iron' polyester pants, but give it a try anyway!

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