How far back can you remember? Are you one, two...five years old? Are things fuzzy around the edges or can you remember faces and places, smells and sounds, fears and tears, giggles and wiggles? In my writing group, a challenge was put before us to write about our earliest memories. After I completed my story several weeks ago, I thought around my birthday might be a fun time to post it on my blog. I'll take you back to the '50's and '60's in So. California. What a blessing to have grown up as I did.
“Jack and Jill
went up the hill to fetch a pail of water.”
This nursery rhyme decorated my bedroom wall; wooden plaques of cut out
characters told the story. Trying to
focus, Jack and Jill literally tumbled down the wall, their appearance fuzzy
and multiplied across the surface. My
eyesight needed some intervention.
Probably somewhere between the ages of two and three, I remember the
trips to the eye doctor, Dr. Riffenberg.
He had an office in a brick building somewhere in the big city of
Pasadena. My mom and I walked up cement
stairs, followed by a long cement hall and dark red bricks following us inside
as well. In the dark office I sat in a chair surrounded by big white machinery
and eye charts. Dr. Riffenberg wore a
white coat and had dark hair streaked with grey. He had very thick glasses himself with funny
circle glasses attached to those; like glasses for his glasses. I just liked saying his name maybe that is
why I remember all this. Minor surgery
correcting my vision problem soon took place, but all I remember is the
sherbet. My mother saved my stitches,
first evidence of repaired brokenness.
I lived with Mom
and Dad in Arcadia, California. My
mother’s parents resided nearby as well. Randomness defines many of these
memories, all very sensual. A huge
avocado tree shaded the backyard with leaves so big and shiny for me to collect
in bundles. In the front yard, a fuchsia plant dangled its unique blossoms as I
sat and did the same, dangling my feet off the front porch. I plucked off the
flower to “pop” them open. The colors
stunningly brilliant, but sometimes, the magenta petals would bleed unto my
little sweaty palms.
The Helm’s Bakery truck navigated our street
on the weekend. The smell from Heaven of
fresh baked bread and donuts continues to weaken me to this day. The baker‘s van opened in the back to
high-glossed light-grained wood cabinets with trays that slid down on a slant,
revealing the fresh baked and glazed treats. |
| The jelly-filled, messy but my favorite. |
Our milk, in glass bottles, magically appeared in a wire milk container that sat at our front door. The drive-through dairy, close by as well, burned down one day. I remember the smell of the fire and feeling scared seeing the smoke clouds billow up and darken my sky.
 |
| This is the actual dairy in El Monte |
Nancy, my cherished, simple, first-loved doll,
I held close. My mother sewed us
matching outfits. I loved shoe boxes, coloring books, and play dishes. Building my own towns with the decorated shoe
boxes, and saving bottle caps to make flowers from, my artsy-craftsy side came
at an early age.
Thinking back to
these days, I am disappointed that some memories of important events in my
young life, I do not remember, like the birth of my sister Lauren at age three
and the physical move to West Covina at age five. Since my grandparents lived
close by, I am sure they kept a good eye on me during these eventful
times. My sister’s presence in my life
never had a start; she’s always existed for me in a positive way. 
I remember the crunching sounds of the pebbles laid out on the pathways as I walked in my buckled sandals amongst the giant tropical plants, imagining the wild animals at any turn. My dad took the time to find unique greenery that he tenderly cared for with such pride. I learned so much about gardening and horticulture from my dad. In our front yard, we planted festuga grass, agave and ajuga ground cover, but my favorite, a chorisia speciosa floss silk tree, (Japanese). A lime green trunk with big thorns kept the cats away, but the beautiful pink blossoms, almost orchid like, came at spring. I spent many summers raking the skinny long leaves then plopping down under it to read my favorite Nancy Drew mystery or Laura Ingalls Wilder book.
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Mrs. Grace Cubak today at age 95! John 14:26 (NIV)But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you all things and will remind you of everything I have said to you. |
Within the
sanctification of our Christian walk, things can start off a little fuzzy. When you take a part in His beautiful
creation around you, sit under the shade of his grace, explore the colors of
his character, breath in deep the fragrance of forgiveness, and allow God to
sift you for his purpose, sorting out the rubble and dispose of it, memories become sweeter in time. As much as we want to take control sometimes,
the pink-tinted mirror and the glasses on top of glasses in our lives still
reveal a child of God in need of a savior. Today I am still walking on His path, hearing
His “crunch” footstep at my side when I listen. Sometimes to a fault, my
parents tried hard to have things perfect. Many times, reality became a hard
lesson for all of us. Blessed to have
forgiving, loving parents; unconditional love became a concept I easily
understood. Becoming a parent myself, that same love for my children and from
my Lord, continued to teach me more and reminded me to create happy memories
for my own children. I only pray that is so.
