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"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