- the well chewed rubber nipple removed from my bottle and replaced be a mew one I would have to break in.
- the much loved, not often enough worn, and too soon outgrown dress known as my indian dress. Cotton. Tiered skirt. Pesant top with elastic in the large neckline. Beige background colour. The print was reminiscent of the Navajo blankets - geometric and very colourful.
- the house in which I lived my first 11 years
- the woman who mothered me those years, and of whom I think every time I pick up my knitting. Mamita was a saint to accept the raising of me, after her own three were about fledged!
- the gentle man who would take me with him to bring in the milk from the milk box. Who would keep me entertained im the early mornings before anyone else awoke. Who would scoop ice cream for us and bring it upstairs to share with me in a bedroom. Who worked in his garden while I sat among his flowers plucking petals. Who vanished inexplicably from my life when I was 26 months old. It was only decades later that my mother finally told me what happened to him. A fall and concussion on black ice did it. As often as I had asked in childhood, no one had answered clearly. It’s only because my missal had one of the remembrance cards from his funeral that I knew the date of his death. He was - in my baby-talk - Deedee; to the rest of the household, he was Daddy Gene. No one told children ANYTHING back then!!! I was already a mother of two, before I figured out who I was named for!!! Middle name Jean, for Daddy Gene. First name Jessica for Jesse, the young doctor who solved my grandparents’ fertility problems ... twice. Resulting in the existence of my mother and the twins, my aunt and uncle.
As one ages, other things/abilities are lost.
I can no longer roller skate; I tried at a rink in Leominster a few years ago, and it didn’t matter if they were in-line or not, I just can’t anymore.
In 2019, I rode my bicycle once.
In 2018, twice.
Today is August 7, 2020, and I haven’t ridden it at all. :(
