X-mas ’49 on West 39th Street

The grass my uncle would not let me cut has all been concreted over and the vacant garden lot on the west side has a big building.

The saga of the baby buggy. My first Christmas in the U.S. (age 8), instead of the usual new dress for my doll, there was a baby buggy and highchair for me to play house. I do not think I remebered that these belongings proved inconvenient for my mother, who gave them away even before she decided to move to South America, when the baby carriage I had been given for our first child also proved inconvenient and she left it behind in New York.
That carriage had been given to me by a family for whom I had baby sat in New York and while we lived in D.C., where our first child was born, I used it on the the walk over to her grandmother’s house. Then, when we moved to New Hampshire, my mother wanted some of her furniture picked up in New York because she was taking a job in Connecticut. Then, when all her stuff was loaded on the moving van, there was no room for the baby carriage and she told the movers to just leave it behind.

I was about two when I realized the adult looking after me was unreliable. But, it took me another 38 years to understand she was a narcissist and nothing she said was to be taken as the truth.