My very earliest memories took place on the corner of 6th Avenue and 180th Street, where my parents rented a house when we first moved from Melbourne to North Miami Beach. My grandparents lived a few blocks away—just far enough that we had to drive there—in a house my father would eventually buy from my grandfather. It was that latter house that I consider my real home growing up, though strangely, this little place where we lived for only two or three years was home to my very favorite childhood recollections.
I had a small bedroom in the front of the house. I remember sleeping in a crib in this room, and I remember the very first time I climbed out of it to play with my toys when I was supposed to be sleeping. For weeks I hid the fact that I could scramble in and out at will, not realizing that the big-kid bed on the other wall was intended for me. I can still feel the sensation of happiness when I “graduated” from my crib, the bed’s irrelevance suddenly replaced by its just-in-time importance.
It must be no coincidence that my tender memories in this little house left me with a fondness for a midcentury aesthetic. I can still see my blonde mother with her Marilyn Monroe pouf of hair standing in a sleeveless button-down and capri pants in front of the white-brick wall that anchored the living room. I remember my father, forever trying to still the hands of time, shooting us in front of that wall with his unwieldy camera as we struck silly poses. There was the wonderful day that our hot water heater broke and flooded the house, forcing me to play outside until dark, using our “carport” as a respite from the hot South Florida sun. And there was my 4th birthday when my dear grandfather was finally healthy enough to leave the hospital. I shared that day with him, belatedly celebrating what would be his last birthday, in tandem with mine. We had a special cake that was divided in half with two colors of frosting; in honor of him I proudly chose to eat from the “Happy Birthday Grampa” side.
The memories play like scenes from The Wonder Years; the colorful neighbors like extras wandering the back lot. My mother drove a nondescript, light-colored sedan that might have been a Chevy or an Olds. I remember its bench seat which, although unheard of today, allowed a mother to drive with two young children in the front beside her. It was unbearable to sit on the vinyl upholstery; the sting of the Florida heat could raise blisters on the back of a child’s thighs. Once a week, my mother took me with her to her tennis lessons. I had no idea what tennis was all about, however, once there my mother granted me a nickel to get a soda from the machine near the court. This was my first possession of real money. Once she lined up with the other women to return serves I was off her radar completely for the duration of the lesson. I was permitted to walk the length of the court all by myself—like a grown woman—and then deposit the coin into the slot. I loved the clickety-clack as the nickel fell through the inner workings of the machine. With sober importance I considered, only briefly, my choice of drink before selecting a Fanta Orange. It was always a Fanta. I would grasp the bottle by its cap with my tiny hands and pull against the sharp edges as hard as I could, releasing the chilled bottle from its hugging mechanism, and then watching as another filled its place. Slyly, I would tug again on the next one to see if it too would come free; I could not comprehend the magic that locked the next bottle so quickly.
With prize careful uncapped and secure in my hand, I would saunter back to the wooden bench adjacent to the court where my mother and the other ladies played in their short skirts. If my mother was good at tennis, or showed improvement over the many weeks, I could not tell you. I was captivated by my soda; its chilled glass bottle gave it an ice-cold sensation that was unlike anything else. Although I sizzled in the hot son, baking my skin to a crisp brown until my Keds left tan lines, I could flush my insides with bubbly orange frost and feel chilled instantly. I liked to practice sipping with a stiff upper lip the way grown-ups did, but I was afraid that this approach would net me an unpleasant orange mustache. Placed carefully, however, the orange would color only my lip—making it look as though I wore real lipstick.
Nothing brings back the nostalgia of those simple and happy days like icy soda in a real glass bottle. As a Diet Coke addict, however, it is challenging to find an endless supply of product in New England. For this reason, my husband seeks out sources as a special way to convey his affection. Today’s blog is brought to you by the memories that his latest procurement evoked. The glass-bottled Diet Coke remains as much a treat for me today as that bottle of Fanta Orange was in my youth.
Tomorrow's blog: Money Matters
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