365 Memories

At night, tired from a long work day, strange things surface. What would make me remember a story I hadn't thought about in decades—a story that isn't even mine, although it belongs to my childhood? When I was young, I loved to tell jokes. Knock-knock jokes in particular, as my son tells now, and when I was older, jokes from the "Truly Tasteless Jokes" series of books (I think there were many volumes; I had at least one of them, with a black cover). Then for some reason I stopped being able to remember jokes at all. I've rarely told any in my adult life, though I like to think I've managed to keep a sense of humor anyway. The jokes were often quite long, with complicated stories leading up to a punch line. This is probably why, in time, I became unable to tell them. I'd remember the punch line but not the setup. I do know that some of my old jokes were rather inappropriate, especially for a child telling them. One involved a rip-off artist in a house of il...

The myth we believed, to a certain extent, when we left Chicago and moved to Los Angeles in 1979 was that the weather in L.A. was beautiful in the winter. The weather was not the reason we moved, mind you; it was our consolation prize for uprooting ourselves due to a job promotion (my father's). We assumed that we were leaving our tribulations of harsh weather conditions behind, and in terms of the thermostat, I guess we were. The air temperature in Southern California was undeniably milder. We moved at the end of spring, settled in during the summer, and made it through the "Back to School" season without incident. The end of the year, and the holidays with it, took us by surprise--we were lost without our usual seasonal cues of falling mercury, blankets of white--and our Christmas shopping that year was done in a last-minute rush (we simply couldn't believe it really was December). We rounded a new decade: January 1980, then February. We were living in a house, and ...

January 1990. I had been traveling in France, staking out possible foreign study programs; the City of Lights was not yet a firm choice. I began my tour in Paris during the last few days of 1989, spent a plate-smashing New Year's Eve shouting " bonne année !" in the Latin Quarter (but that's another story), subsequently headed to Besançon , and then left colder climates behind as I went south by train to Nice and the sunny Côte d'Azur , where my mom joined me for several days before we made the return trip to New York together. During these days of winter sun, we marveled at the light on the Mediterranean, watched swaying palm trees and brave beach-goers from the Promenade des Anglais (warmer than in the north, it was still too darn cold for bikinis on the beach!); we visited wonderful museums and, venturing to Menton , not far from the Italian border, ate some of the best pesto we've ever had. All that was lovely, but the thing I remember most about this ...

The middle of a Michigan winter. Darkness slipped down around us early, and we would move in a huddle of coats and hats and scarves that, if they covered our faces, would trap our breath and the smell of damp wool next to our mouths. We didn't care how cold it was; we wanted to be outside, where everything seemed still, the silence broken only by our own voices and the sound of our feet crunching across snow, our footsteps and teenage banter made louder in contrast with the surrounding quiet. We would lie down on the tennis courts that were beyond Faculty Lane, on the other side of the highway from the main campus buildings, near the summer camp's "High School Boys" area. During the academic year, there was really no reason for any of us to be on that side of the highway—then again, it seemed we were often where we had no business being. We'd lie on our backs, side by side on the cold clay courts, a chill pushing through our padded layers, reaching up and down our...

January 1985. At fifteen years old, I was an angry ex-dancer; passion crushed, career shunted. It seemed so true, that statement about not going home again. After being on my own at fourteen, across the country from my parents in order to pursue a dream that didn't work out, there was no question of going back to a "normal" high school, no desire to live at home, despite my parents' support (or maybe because of it—I didn't want sympathy or for anyone to say they'd been afraid this kind of thing would happen). So, I was once again the "new girl" at another boarding school for artists, and that was fine; I could remake myself into anything at all: drama major, costume designer, metalsmith , photographer. Assuming, of course, that my parents and I made it through the whiteout. We had just arrived in Traverse City, Michigan, had found the school some 14 miles away, situated between two frozen lakes, abutting State Park land, and we were heading out to fi...

January 1979.  Thirty years ago—how did that happen?  I was nine and our family lived in Chicago, in an apartment on Commonwealth, a street that ended (or began) at Lincoln Park.  Winter vacation, and all I wanted was snow*.  Snow to make a snowman, snow to have a snowball fight with my father, snow to use my metal saucer and whip down Devil's Hill.  I don't know who named it "Devil's Hill," whether it was someone in my family, or the other kids at school, or maybe it was known that way generally.  It was indeed an evil hill, ripe for sledding and saucering accidents, which thankfully I never had, though I came close once.  I remember waddling (it was hard to do anything else wearing tights, thermal long-johns over that, plus pants and maybe also snow pants) up the steep hill, dragging the saucer.  Up at the top, my dad would help position me, ask for the OK, and give me a good shove off.  Let me tell you there are not many ways to control a saucer racing super f...

A winter day in Paris, early 1991.  Shopping the marché rue de Buci in the 6eme arrondissement with my mom, on the prowl for impromptu breakfast to go.  Warm pain aux raisins, light and soft and sticky; seasonal clementines, tiny orbs of sunshine in our cold hands.  I was living there at the time, a student and also working as a "stagière" (intern) in the European headquarters of a software industry association.  My mom came to visit for a while, keeping at bay any homesickness, giving a respite from the constant efforts of negotiating another language, another culture.  She and I set out for a day trip.  Leaving the Gare Saint Lazare on a train bound for Rouen, we settled in for one of the most memorable meals of my life: the richness of the pastry cut by the juicy sweet tang of citrus; an explosion of taste inside our mouths as we bit the fruit, released it from its skin; exclaiming "Mmm..." and "Ooooh..." and "Look!" as the French landscape ro...