as i grow old, i remember
by J.B. Polk
The very first memory, when I was three or four.
A crystal teardrop necklace. Not Swarovski, but Jablonex, mass-produced behind the Iron Curtain in the neighbouring Czech Republic. All year round, Mom kept it locked in a box with enamel forget-me-nots 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 only put it on for New Year's Eve parties. Dressed in a brocade gown trimmed with lace, with Mary Quant makeup applied to the eyelids and cheeks but with her nails bitten to the quick, she let me wear it for a few moments before vanishing in 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. They drank vodka instead of champagne, I heard.
The second, the age of unreason, as I turned six.
My first dog (I'm on number ten now), a pinscher and terrier mix with crooked legs and a stumpy tail, which I, eager to stand out, named Frog. I cried for an entire week when she died when I was fifteen.
Not sure what number but definitely around the time I was ten, the age of defiance.
Winters because of sledging, ice skating, frozen rivers, and my dad's warnings.
"The ice will crack; you might fall in and drown like poor Erika,” he thundered.
Erika was a simple-minded eighteen-year-old living in a small flat above a delicatessen that sold Spanish oranges at Christmas, which were otherwise unavailable at any other time of the year. After all, we lived behind the “Iron Curtain”.
Of course, I ignored his admonitions; the ice did crack, and I did fall in but survived. Dad was never the wiser. ‘O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’ as Lewis Carrol would say…
Next on the list, regardless of the number.
The amusement park visiting our town twice a year. A team of weary ponies pulled a kitschy carousel and a cotton candy cart. 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 Swarovski ring my ex-husband gave me instead of a real diamond. Cheap bastard!
Through six to ten and perhaps beyond.
Summers filled with trips to a village along the banks of the Warta River, inhabited by storks (monogamous creatures), the scent of freshly cut grass, blooming lime trees, and acacia honey spread on rye. For two weeks, we set up a tent behind an enormous manor house that Ludvik, my maternal great-great-grandfather- a diehard drinker and adventurer- gambled away by betting on slow horses and fast women in the early 20th century. With a vengeance, Mom hammered each peg into the ground, mumbling through clenched teeth that education was as valuable as wealth, so I should either study or marry a rich man without gambling vices.
In August, burdened by cardboard suitcases without wheels, we embarked on a 12-hour train journey to the Hel Peninsula. Despite its unsettling name, it was heaven on earth where I lay belly up like a beached whale, face to the sun, no sunscreen but 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-coloured amber. I kept them in velvet sachets for the rest of the year for no reason other than to evoke the summer warmth on frosty winter mornings.
And the one that tops them all - the queen, king, pharaoh, and emperor of all numbers.
The birth of my children. Each one so different, so special, so expected, so loved. I remember rejoicing in every centimetre of their growth and celebrating their achievements. But I also cherish the moments I was willing to trade them for a pet parrot. With gratitude, I honor the challenging yet rewarding journey of single parenthood, far from my homeland, in distant South America.
The recollections flow fast now.
· Superb.
· Great.
· Memorable.
· Middling.
· Ordinary.
· Forgettable.
But where are the awful ones? For some reason, they are absent. Perhaps it is because I believe that life, whether one is young or old, must be lived and commemorated as it comes. And as Eladia Blasquez once 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 honour life.
Photo of JB Polk
BIO: Polish by birth, a citizen of the world by choice. First story short-listed for the Irish Independent/Hennessy Awards, Ireland, 1996. Since she went back to writing in 2020, more than 150 of her stories, flash fiction and non-fiction, have been accepted for publication. She has recently won 1st prize in the International Human Rights Arts Movement literary contest.