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am often amazed at how deep a
child's memory can be — the dis-
tinct details, both the superfluous
and profound, that pour out at unex-
pected moments.
"Remember when we went to the
museum and then we went to the
park and we sang, 'Mary Wore Her
Red Dress' and we went on the tire
swing and then we went to that store
with all the nature stuff and Daddy
bought me some bear stickers?" my
daughter Adina, 6, will say. And I
have to think back, and I seem to
remember something along those
lines last year, though I had forgotten
about the song and the stickers.
Prodded, Adina will give even
more information: "And after that-
Yitzhak spilled his pretzels and Coke
all over the car and you said, 'Why,
why, why do we let our children eat .
in here?' and then we had to go to
the car wash but we didn't have the
right change and that machine, you
know that gives you change, was
broken, so Daddy and you had to
go to a store to get some and then
me and Yitz whined a lot because
we couldn't have candy and then
we came home and you and Daddy
said that if you didn't get five minutes
peace you were going to lose your
minds, do you remember Mommy?"
Although, inexplicably, I have a
great memory for song lyrics, I'm
embarrassingly bad at events and
faces. "Do you remember me?" my
best pal in college liked to say each
morning.
Often, I can make no rhyme or
reason of the incidents I recall from
when I was young.
Some of them are decidedly incon-
sequential, such as when I found a
beautiful rock at the school play-
ground, then placed it in a "safe
place" underneath a pile of rocks,
then was distraught at being unable
to find it days later.
When I was quite little, perhaps
about 5, I was out with a group of
friends and we stopped at an unusu-
al place, not far from where I lived.
It wasn't a store exactly, though there-)
were many books with angry photos
such as I had never seen. I remem-
ber feeling confused and frightened.
But the woman there seemed so
pleasant, and she was clearly
delighted that we were there.
When I went home and told my
mother she was mortified, truly morti
fied, and she told me that I was
never, ever to go back.
"But why?" I asked. "The lady
there was nice —"
"They don't like colored people at
that place," she said. "In fact, they
hate them. And what they do and
what they believe is wrong."
Although I wasn't exactly sure who
colored people" were (when you're
a child, of course, people are just
people) I remember thinking at that
moment, "This is really serious,"
because my mother didn't usually talk
like this. And while I cannot remem-
ber many of the details surrounding -J
the moment — I have never forgotten
my mother's words.
Today, while much of our family
conversation involves the usual chat-
ter ("Please don't put cereal in your
sister's hair," "No, you cannot have
just pudding for dinner") I do not
ignore the opportunities to teach my`-,
children, tiny though they are, impor-
tant lessons for life.
And they work. Though cynicism is
my modus operandi, I confess I am
often moved to tears when Adina
says, in such a pure way, "When I
grow up I would like to help poor
children," or "If I went to Grandma';- )
house and she served me spinach, I
would eat it even though I hate it
because I don't want to hurt her feel-
ings," and a lesson I learned so well
from my mother, "Isn't it wonderful
that God created a world with all
different kinds of people?"
r—,
"
Elizabeth Applebaum
Editor