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Childhood Memories
Those years are like dusty boxes filled with old books, each representing a significant leap in my life. They captured my first steps that led to countless experiences. I often remember my small bottle of goat’s milk, flavored with Grenadian nutmeg to mask the taste. My father must have seen the look of disgust on my young face after my first sip, especially when compared to cow’s milk. Back then, "lactose intolerance" was a term largely unknown to most people.
The struggle between cod liver oil on Sunday mornings and the lingering nauseating aftertaste was real. In the 1950s, few children escaped mumps, measles, whooping cough, or chickenpox. Childhood diseases were feared, particularly among the poorest, and the older generations did whatever it took to protect us.
Emerging from the danger zone, I was always searching for my next chapter, recording my thoughts one line at a time. I found joy in the simplest things—choosing the best pebbles, listening to the loudest night crickets, and collecting the most beautiful butterflies.
I recall catching a mischievous bird, trying to cage the poor creature until my grandmother begged me to let it go free. That freedom became a squeak of happiness, and I believe that bird returned the favor to our household. There he was, pecking at the bananas on the kitchen counter, possibly sensing danger on that windy morning when a nearby kitchen towel was left too close to the burning stove.
The freedom he embraced brought us joy that day. Preserving my childhood memories came not only from that hilltop but also from what that bird taught me about a kitchen window that opened with a slight squeak—freedom.
Copyright ©
Annie Lander
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