It’s 2015. April, in fact. I am 55 years old.
No, I’m not. I’m 6 years old. In my jammies, riding in the station wagon with my Dad. The very early morning sun is yellow and pale orange. I have my spindly legs tucked under me, wiggling my toes in my fuzzy slippers. Waiting and waiting to make that left turn onto Seymour Street.
There she is! Her silky scarf tied tightly under chin, her pocketbook hanging from her arm. She stands there waiting for us.
My Nanny. My grandmother. An angel in my life.
Weekdays, my father would leave our home on West Walnut Street in Lancaster, PA very early in the morning and head south. He would pick up my grandmother on the corner of Seymour Street and bring her back to our home, where my mother had her beauty shop. She would care for my brother and me while my mother worked and my father was working in Calendar at Armstrong Cork Co.
Whar a treat it was to be awake and be able to pester him to ride along 🙂
Seeing this photo online took me back to those golden mornings. Like it was yesterday.
I cannot remember what I ate two days ago but I can see Nanny in her midcalf coat, her pocketbook hung on her wrist, that scarf covering her head. I can smell her Cashmere Bouquet.
I hope and pray she knows that I am reliving those precious moments. I suppose it’s a curse of the human condition that we don’t see just how precious moments are until they are memories.