A Walk Down Memory Lane

The old woman looks at me and smiles. For a moment, her face looks almost young again.
“You remind me so much of what I was like at your age,” she says wistfully. “You have such ambition, such motivation, and such a desire to succeed.”
She pauses, remembering, and looks out the window.
“I never went to college, you know,” she says to me. “I decided I would rather get a job so that I could have a pair of shoes to go along with every outfit.” She laughs, her eyes sparkling. “My sister never quite knew what to think of that. But I got a job, and I do have a pair of shoes to go with every outfit.”
The old woman pauses, then turns and looks at me. I can see that she is still remembering times past, recalling the days of her long-gone youth. She sighs.
“I’ll never forget those years I spent in Germany,” she goes on. “I saw and did so many things. Those are days I wouldn’t have missed for anything.”
She leans forward in her chairs, her eyes taking on a serious gleam.
“You go after your dreams, young lady,” she says to me. “You do those things you want to do and live a full life. You will never regret it!”
We have had many such conversations. She never misses a chance to tell me she is proud of me and to encourage me to make as much of myself as possible. She is a wonderful old lady! She has so many years of experience tucked under her belt. And oh, the stories she tells!
“I’ll never forget living in Virginia,” she tells me one day. “Those were happy times. One year I decided to make matching Easter outfits for the three boys. I made them all yellow pants, striped jackets, and matching hats. How handsome they looked! My husband and I would get compliments everywhere we went with them. I would hold my chin up proudly and think to myself, ‘Those are my boys!’ They had a happy childhood. Of course, they had their violent moments too. There was one time when one ran after his brother with a hammer and hit him on the head. At a loss for how to punish him, I told him to go to his room and wait until his father got home. When my husband got home and I told him what had happened, he marched straight back to my son’s bedroom, took the hammer, and conked him on the head with it! My son looked at him through eyes as wide as saucers, not sure what to think.
‘Now maybe you’ll think twice before hitting your brother with that again,’ my husband said. And would you guess, my son never hit his brother with a hammer again!” She chuckles, amused at the memory.
Now it is time for me to go. It has been a rich day, hearing her repeat the stories of her life. I wonder what stories she will have for me next time.