Three Little Things

There are three memories of childhood that stay with me almost sixty years later. Small things bestowed by my mother. All took place in the Queens neighborhood of Jackson Heights where I was born and lived, my first six years. Though there were countless other places my mother took me and my three sisters throughout our lives, it is these three things, I remember most.

The Choo Choo Train Restaurant – On a busy strip of Queens Boulevard lay a special place straight out of a Walt Disney movie. Its name still remains unknown, but my sisters and I called it the Choo-Choo Train restaurant. On special occasions my mother would take us to the luncheonette where I would order my very favorite (still to this day) selection from the vast and varied menu, a medium cheeseburger and black and white shake. When the order was ready, a small whistle would sound simulating a steam train’s “choo choo.” I would watch in fascination as the little train holding my plate would snake around the counter and in short order be delivered neatly in front of me. As an added bonus, the cashier gave all diners a pack of chicklets with the check. I have never to this day experienced anything quite as whimsical and creative as the Choo Choo Train restaurant and am forever grateful to the clever creator who left me this magical memory.

Hot chocolate with whipped cream – Normally a treat reserved for cold or snowy days my mother would take us to a diner but this one tucked away on a quiet and residential side street, for a steaming cup of hot chocolate. On special occasions our cousins would join us. I recall the bustling atmosphere of the family run establishment and my confusion at hearing the short order cook yelling out strange slang I could never quite understand. We only came for the hot chocolate which was home-made, deep chocolaty, steaming and comforting. But the hot chocolate alone was not the draw. It was the light and billowy whipped cream sprayed in abandon atop the hot chocolate mug that was the real masterpiece. I still see the waitress now in her apricot colored uniform and neat white apron giving me “seconds,” and on very special days if I asked nicely, thirds. I don’t think I will ever forget the sound of that hissing, manic whipped cream canister delivering forever remembered joy as I twirled atop the counter’s orange padded stool.

The little dolls – I have searched the world over to find these treasures again, but alas to no avail. It is if I dreamed them all along.

On very special occasions my mother would bring us to a small toy store on Northern Boulevard and buy for us a magical trinket. They came in a square, shiny and smooth aluminum tin. Lifting the lid you would find two little flat shaped dolls lying neatly to greet you. They were of different shapes, colors and sizes and you never knew just whom you may encounter. But it was not the dolls that were the true delight, it was the little dresses and various outfits that accompanied them. Somewhat like Colorforms, the clothes would adhere to the dolls body but you would first brush their front with a clear colored crayon. Creativity knew no bounds allowing you to style the dolls in any fashion that struck your fancy. A short, A-lined, scalloped bottom light yellow dress and tiny matching hat, a pair of bright red polka dot peddle pushers and white lace blouse. A long, sparkling cocktail gown for that special girl’s night out. And if interrupted you could neatly tuck them back into their tin for both safe keeping and the next encounter. I was in heaven outfitting these beautiful little dolls and recall an oh so vivid moment, of sitting with my sister Anne on our apartment steps, contentedly dressing them for hours. So small, tidy and perfect.

Three little things.

And how I wish I could tell my mother just how much they meant to me.