I’ve thought about them so many times over the years. Little girls in blue and grey, enveloped in giggles as they played hopscotch and double dutch in an asphalt covered schoolyard. Little girls racing home after school to watch Barnabas Collins and Angelique face off on Dark Shadows. Little girls hurrying down to Larry’s Candy Store to score some Double Bubble and sneak a read of the latest issue of Tiger Beat magazine. And later, bigger little girls, experimenting with neon blue eye shadow, grabbing a “slice” from the Pizza Shack and strutting their (not quite yet developed) stuff down the “Avenue”. It’s funny. Most days, I can’t recall what I ate for breakfast or where I stashed my car keys. But, I remember each one of those bright and shiny faces – my own included – even though it’s been over thirty-five years since I last saw any of them.
I don’t know. Maybe my own mortality is catching up with me. But lately, I’ve been feeling so nostalgic for those old days. It’s like I have this urgent need to remember as much as I can, so that I never forget. Does that make any sense? It’s a little hard to explain – even to myself.
Anyway, a few weeks ago I found a group on Facebook dedicated to Morris Park, my old neighborhood in the Bronx. I clicked on it and the page was filled with posts from people about life in the “good old days” in the “old neighborhood”. Most were like me – the ones that started out there, and for whatever reason, moved on to a life somewhere else. There were also many who still lived there, some even in the same houses they were born in. Some of the posters just wanted to reminisce. Some were looking to find old friends they’d lost touch with. I got kind of a rush when I read the comments about places or neighbors that I remembered. The group’s air of congeniality and familiarity really struck me. I felt a sort of kinship with them. read more >>