Mall Memory ‘83
Saturdays meant going to the Riverside Mall with Mom. Well, to be precise, after Saturday morning cartoons, World Wrestling Federation, America’s Top 10, Sha Na Na and Kung Fu Theatre. When golf came on, it was time to play outside. I had priorities after all. Life was decidedly low tech and entertainment options were limited. You had to make your own fun or find something to pass the time. This particular Saturday in 1983 was like most others. Mom would allow me to explore both Record World AND Record Town if I behaved while she was looking at clothes — so boring. The frozen yogurt shop was giving away samples of their delicious strawberry flavor. I can still taste it. As we marched on, we came across a small group gathered around an artisan. He was dressed like a medieval Dutch carpenter and was carving clogs and knives out of wood. There were probably other items on display, but I wanted the knife. Desired it. Longed for it. All within seconds of seeing it. Impetuous maybe but perhaps I knew what I wanted. Mom spotted the action too. Soon, we walked closer for a better look. The wooden shoes were cool, I guess. That is, as far as wooden shoes go. My younger brother got a clog. His taste and decision-making abilities are still questionable. That is another story entirely. Back to the Knife — THE Knife. It was such a cool shape. A knife carved from a hunk of wood with another knife. Why did it fascinate me? Glorious, lucky day! Mom said yes! The artisan nimbly trimmed the handle and blade. Next, he added some details to the grip and carved the year 1983 onto the blade. He flipped it over for one final embellishment. John. Now it was really mine.
I cannot remember the price of this precious, little gift from my mother in 1983. The real gift is the perfectly preserved memory of my eight-year-old self, enjoying a Saturday in the ’80s with my Mom.
Thirty-eight years have passed. The knife sits on my desk now always within my sight and grasp. I have protected and cared for it since I was eight. It has survived remarkably unscathed. Well, almost. My youngest son decided to draw on it with a red pen about five years ago. Oh boy, I was angry. Frustrated that he could not fathom the sentimental value. Why, I was his age when this magical talisman came into my life! One or two deep breaths later and I had to smile. In his own, mischievous way, my son added his story to my memory. Now we have a shared memory that we can both access anytime. The real value is not the object but the memories that it stores. I know this precious relic of mine will be a family heirloom. It has already been imbued with history and emotion. It has been touched by three generations of my family. And it all started on a Saturday in 1983 in a mall in New Jersey!
