Burnt Chocolate Stories

1976 - Matt in Japan with his Dad      I sometimes say that every ten years I push the delete button in my brain to make room for new information. It's just a game I play to cover myself for whatever I can't seem to remember-names, dates, places. About thirty years ago, I started to write a collection of stories about my early years as a mother. I regret that I didn't write more of them when the memories were fresher and I could conjure up the experiences as if they just happened. Going through my files, I happened upon this little piece that taught me an important lesson. The year is 1976. We've lived in our house for just two years and the garage has stretched as far as it can to accommodate two cars, five bicycles, two tricycles, a lawn mower and gardening tools. Shelves in front of the windows creak with automotive supplies. Baseballs, basketballs, soccer balls, golf balls and tennis balls randomly bounce under the cars, creeping into the corners. A tinny red gas ca...

 In 1974, we moved into a beautiful house in Evanston, Illinois on a tiny street next to the beach called Edgemere Court. Older residents were moving out and we were one of the newcomers with young children. Janice and Charlie Feldstein, who lived across the street from us, were great neighbors whose company we enjoyed. Several years later, the last of their children graduated from college and they moved to a condo in downtown Chicago. Within a few months, a new family moved in with two children much younger than ours. We welcomed them to the neighborhood but didn't spend much time together.  A few years later, I was asked to do the collections for cancer research for our block since I knew all of the neighbors and had the time. So of course, I called the neighbors across the street.  When the wife answered the phone, I said, "Hi Pam, How are you?" She answered, "Oh, hi Barb. I'm doing fine." Not having spoken more than a few words to each other in passing, ...

Many years ago, Steve and I were invited to the Covenant Club in Chicago to celebrate the wedding of a good friend at the time whose name I do remember - Judy Young. This had to be in the 1970's because the Club closed in the 80's. Anyhow, the place was known for their creamed spinach which was delicious and a very popular item on their menu. So of course, it was served at this formal wedding. I wore a long black gown with rhinestones on the front. Even though Steve was planning to catch a midnight flight to New York, he wore his tuxedo and looked quite dashing. The dinner was lovely, music perfect for dancing and as I recall, we enjoyed the company at our table.  Around ten o'clock, I checked the time and suggested Steve think about saying his goodbyes and congratulations. As I turned to face him, I noticed a tiny green smudge on his collar. "How did you dribble spinach on your collar?" I said as I removed it with my napkin.  "No idea."  Then, I noticed...

This is the first year in my entire life of 82 years that I have lived alone, having gone from my parents home to my marital home. In 1964, a 'nice girl' lived with her parents until she got married. What's interesting to me is what I've learned about myself and my marriage this past year. I have some OCD in me, perhaps more than I'd like to admit. I eat the same breakfast every morning and follow something of a routine. I play the five New York Times games as I eat my cinnamon raisin toast and drink coffee. Even though I can stay up late, eat chocolates to excess, binge watch a show until I'm dizzy, I stay to a regular schedule, much the same as I did when Steve was with me. And I like my apartment to look well groomed at all times, but I'm likely to shove papers and magazines into any available drawer if company is coming over.  I used to think we lived according to Steve's plan, that he was the one who made the decisions about vacations and travel, re...