As I Grow Old, I Remember

1.     My very first memory - I was three or four.

 My mother's girandole earrings (I later learned it was pronounced "jeer-an-dou-lee"), with three green stones dangling at the bottom, the centerpiece slightly lower than the other two. Not Swarovski, but Jablonex, mass-produced behind the Iron Curtain in the neighboring Czech Republic. All year round, Mom kept them locked in a box wrapped in a handkerchief smelling of "Pani Walewska," a fragrance sold in ultramarine bottles for 5 zloty (also the price of a Shane Nuss chocolate on the black market). She wore them only for New Year's Eve parties. Dressed in a brocade gown trimmed with lace, with Mary Quant makeup applied to the eyelids but with her nails bitten to the quick, she let me hold them for a few moments before vanishing with a puff of an oh-so-delicate scent like a Communist-era Cinderella. No pumpkin carriage with horse-mice was waiting for her, but an Ikarus bus provided by the steelworks where she worked. The contrast between her glamorous appearance and the humble mode of transportation highlighted the duality of her life, a reminder that even amidst hardship, beauty can still thrive.

2.    The second - the age of unreason. I was six.

My first dog (I'm on number ten now), a pinscher and terrier mix with crooked legs and a stumpy tail that I, eager to stand out, named Frog. I cried for an entire week when she died at fifteen. Frog taught me that dogs are all about loyalty and unconditional love. Her passing also marked the beginning of my understanding of loss and the fragility of life.

3.    Still figuring out the number, but definitely around the time I was ten—the age of defiance.

Winters with sledding, ice skating, frozen rivers, and my dad's warnings. I remember that winter vividly, with its frosty air and the thrill of adventure.

"The ice will break; you'll fall in and drown like poor Erika," he roared.

Erika was a fifteen-year-old with special needs who lived in a tiny flat above the delicatessen, which sold Spanish oranges at Christmas, otherwise unavailable at any other time of the year.

Of course, I ignored his advice; the ice broke; I fell in but survived and never told Dad.

4.    Through six to ten and even beyond.

Summers brought excursions to a town on the Warta River with its storks (monogamous creatures), the perfume of newly cut grass (no aroma can match! ), lime trees (casting shadows in the burning heat), and acacia honey on rye (caviar cannot compete).

For two weeks, we pitched a tent behind a vast manor house where Ludwik, my maternal great-great-grandfather, a passionate drinker and adventurer, had squandered away his money betting on slow horses and fast women. Mom whispered through clenched teeth that education was as good as wealth and that I either study or marry a rich man without a gambling problem. 

We took a 12-hour train ride to the Hel Peninsula in August, lugging cardboard suitcases with no wheels. Despite its scary name, it was heaven on earth. I lay belly up like a beached whale, face to the sun, from morning to sunset, with no sunscreen save a thick layer of Nivea cream on my shoulders. I can still hear the echoes of a vendor selling freeeeeeshshshhhsh bluuuuueberryyyy piiiiiieeee and smooooked eeeeeeelllll! 

But in particular, I recall the treasure hunt for tiny pieces of prehistoric resin immortalized by the cold waters of the Baltic in caramel-colored amber. I kept them in velvet sachets for the remainder of the year to bring back summer warmth on chilly winter mornings. The amber pieces were like fragments of sunshine, capturing the essence of those carefree days spent by the sea. 

5.    Next on the list, regardless of the number – early adolescence

The amusement park that visited our town twice a year. A tandem of tired ponies tugged along a kitsch carousel and a cotton candy cart. The amusement park brought a burst of excitement to our small town with its vibrant lights and thrilling rides. The sound of children's laughter filled the air as they eagerly lined up for their turn on the roller coasters and Ferris wheel. It was where my first boyfriend (an eighth grader with pimples and crooked teeth) shot a magenta flower with crepe petals and a wooden stem for me. At twelve, I valued it more than the most exquisite orchids I received later in life. Including the fake diamond ring my first husband gave me instead of a real one. Cheap bastard! 

6.    And the one that tops them all—the queen, king, pharaoh, and emperor of all numbers.

Strangely, my children, because I never wanted to be a mother. I lacked the nurturing instinct that we're meant to be born with. But here they are, at the very top of the list. Despite my initial reluctance to become a mother, I have come to cherish my children above all else. They are a constant reminder of the love and purpose that family brings, making them truly irreplaceable.

Each one is different, one-of-a-kind, and loved from the first heartbeat. I reveled in every millimeter of their growth and celebrated their achievements. But I also treasure the times when I was eager to swap them for a pet parrot.

I honor the arduous but extraordinary path of single parenthood far from my homeland, in distant South America.

The memories flow fast now.

·      Superb.

·      Great.

·      Memorable.

·      Middling.

·      Ordinary.

·      Forgettable.

But where are the terrible ones? For some reason, they are gone. None in my mind. Perhaps because I believe life must be lived and commemorated as it comes, with subtle pleasures and intense pain.

And as Eladia Blasquez famously sang:

To deserve life is not

to be silent and to consent

to so many repeated injustices...

It is a virtue;

it is dignity!

It is the most defined

attitude of identity!

That the lasting

and the passing

                                              do not give us

                                              the right to boast

because it is not

the same to live

as to honor life.