Memories, How Important Are They?

I can remember as early as a year and half years old, according to the things I expressed to my mother when I was growing up. She would put names, dates, and age to my first memories. I first saw my father’s dad when I was almost 1 ½ years old. He was over six feet tall and my parents took my sisters and me to visit our grandparents on their farm in East Liverpool, Ohio. I was terrified of this giant with the hard lines of life weathered into his face and on his hands, along with a deep gruff voice that belonged to this giant. I let all know just how frightened I was with lots of screaming and crying.

That was the only time my grandfather was to ever see me; he died shortly after that visit. My grandmother moved into a large old house in the city where she took in boarders to help make ends meet. They often rented the attic room for short times as the wars came to an end and service men came home to try to mend their wounded minds and bodies. My father talked of the different types of boarders that answered the sign on the front porch. He said she did this for many years.  She would end up with the trunks and old suit-cases left behind as payment for their stay.

I remember my spinster aunt who lived with her mother and who worked at the pottery mill until it closed its doors. She had a parakeet named Sparkey that did tricks. I really hated the outhouse trips especially at night with my brother who cried and begged not to be taken there. I remember making ice-cream on the front porch, churning the butter, and watching my grandmother making lye soap. I remember the large cast-iron stove that heated the kitchen. My grandmother used a chamber pot that was under her bed. The house burnt down and was replaced with a cheaply built smaller house. That house only improved with the indoor bathroom.

I grew up in Akron, in the fifties as it was growing in size and industry. Akron was the largest rubber factory for Goodyear tires. The Blimp that flew over our city did the advertising for them as well. We also had the Wonder Bread factory to boast of when wanting to impress people that we were moving forward in progress. These were years of recovery time after the close of WII.

Our family grew to four children by 1948. It was sort a given that all of the neighbors would gather to help each other when there was a need like, coming home from the hospital. They would make food and take it to them or do their house cleaning, grocery shopping, and any other needs like child care. This was almost a silent expectation in our neighborhood.

We knew that our neighbors were just as watchful as our parents were when it came to us children running around the streets looking for adventure. I remember girl scouts, summer Bible school, and the group of childhood friends made at early ages. We learned to work for our parents from the age of five and up. We did our own laundry, yard work, house chores, and went to school. We played into the night during the summer running to catch fireflies in jars, hiding and seeking, until the mosquitoes became unbearable and then the neighborhood filled the air with voices of parents calling “olly, olly ox in free,” or really just the names of their children needing to go home; sometimes it was called by siblings as well.

This was the atmosphere that I grew up in for the most part. I remember these things with all of the other memories not so nice. They are the mix of good and bad that made up the reality in my life growing up. The good memories and bad memories made me a stronger and more durable person as they played out in adding to my experiences. These were bench marks or a place to reference when things just did not add up. I never really appreciated my memories when I was young because of their complex hold on me. The power to move me in unknown directions I never understood.

Now that I have weathered over sixty years, they become valuable in their power to help me understand why my life took certain paths that I did not really see the warnings ahead.  I know that my life was hard in spots, but there were some times that God shined his light in my dark days that gave me the encouragement to go on.

Barbara L. Gonzalez ponderland@charter.net  Grace Seeker