Mapping the memories

Margie met me at the lobby of her building, and on the way to get coffee she told me she went for a walk yesterday and got lost. “I couldn’t remember the name of my building or the street address, and I didn’t recognize anything around me. I knew if I had to, I could call Lucy, so I didn’t feel panic, but I was starting to feel a little dizzy, and I don’t ever want to fall when I’m out in the street. I just kept meandering, and then suddenly I saw home. I found it. What a relief! I think it was the first time I ever really felt lost.”

Back in her place with our coffees, I asked her to tell me again about her maternal grandmother. “Her name was Esther. She and my grandfather had a dry-cleaning and tailoring shop. She minded the front counter and did alterations on a sewing machine. He took measurements and could build a man’s suit or anything else anybody wanted, but he left the small stuff to her. She taught my mother to sew. She was stern and harsh, like my mother. You’d get no cuddles or storytelling from her. She spoke Yiddish and English, but she wanted the grandchildren to speak only English, to blend in. 

“She was a terrific cook, at least I thought she was. She made wonderful gefilte fish. Matzoh ball soup of course. Chicken. And on holidays she made a kind of yeasted cake with prunes or apricot filling. Prune was my favorite. But I think her first mission was to make people feel full: so she always started with soup, some kind of broth with lots of potatoes and carrots. If you were still hungry after the soup, there was more, but you never got past the feeling that there might not be enough, that you should hold yourself back. 

“We lived at the corner of 163rd Avenue and Tinton. I wonder what it looks like now. If I ever went back, I’d go see if the building where I lived is still there.” 

I pulled out my phone and Google Maps and found her a photo of that corner. 

“That can’t be right,” she said at first. “Where’s the trolley line? We didn’t have any trees. There weren’t any high-rise buildings. We all lived in 6-floor walk-ups. Is that really my corner? I wouldn’t know the place at all.” Gradually she accepted how much it has changed in the 80 years since she lived there. “Thanks for saving me the trouble of going back,” she laughed. “I wouldn’t recognize anything at all.” I asked what she remembered best about the place. 

“My friend Johanna! She lived on the 6th floor, I was on 3rd. I’d lean out the window and call her name, ‘Jo-haaaaanaaa,’ and she would meet me on the stairs with her jump rope, and we’d go down to the street together and play games. The other thing I remember is the cockroaches. At night, if you turned on the light, you’d keep your eyes closed for a little while till the cockroaches had time to run back under the baseboards. I didn’t want to see them. I hate cockroaches.”

Seth texted me this morning to say Tina Turner died. The first big concert I ever attended (other than New Orleans Jazz Festival) was hers, and I took him with me. He wrote, “I remember you taking me to her show when we lived in Texas. A band called Mr Mister was the opening act. That was the first big concert I ever went to, and now I do shows like that for a living.” What a progress his life has been. What a tower of energy she was. What a role model. Her Guardian obituary is here.