Somewhere outside of Bear Valley, California, nestled in the Sierra foothills, is the Moaning Cavern. This colorful limestone cavern is so massive that the Statue of Liberty could easily fit inside of it. Tourists are welcomed to take guided tours down the 100 ft spiraling staircase, or if they are a bit more adventurous, they can rappel 165 feet down the inside of the cavern by rope. “No previous experience is necessary to find your inner spelunker!”

When I read these words in the California Guide Book, I was hooked. This is exactly the kind of experience I dreamt about when I first moved to California. I knew that my friends back in Alabama would be so impressed, as if my experience would earn me some long coveted Girl Scout badge.

Regardless of my reasons, my husband and I drove down towards Bear Valley and prepared for our adventure. When we first arrived, I was excited and trembling with anticipation, but that quickly turned to fear as I browsed the long list of injuries they were not responsible for–broken extremities, paralysis, death. I began to scrutinize the gear, the ropes and the staff with the intensity of an operating room nurse. How diligent were they at testing this material? Were there ever any injuries? Is the guy securing my harness stoned or do his eyes always look that way?

I pushed my fear down into a small cavity inside of my gut and began my decent into the small dark tunnel. At first it was a bit claustrophobic, but soon I began to ease up. This wasn’t so bad, I told myself and then I saw the light. Moaning Caverns suddenly opened before me and my fear turned to panic. As I backed over the ledge, I realized that I would have to dangle on my harness a full 165 ft in the air. My feet were frozen, glued to the tunnel floor. The line started to back up as I sat motionless, but try as I might I couldn’t make my feet budge. The tourists on the ground were like small ants and a paralyzing fear shot up my legs and spine.
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Now that I am a middle-aged grandmother, I oftentimes review the hollowed caverns of my decrepit mind and re-examine the things that stand out to me. Thankfully, when I think of something from my past it is always tied completely to a smell, which rises to the surface for me to follow it like a track of footprints toward a warm cabin full of memories in a snowy wood.

My grandmother lived in Brooklyn on East 15th Street and Avenue M. Her house was the place I wanted to be more than anywhere else in the world, mainly because she lived there. Life at 1365 was warm, loving, safe, and secure. Reminiscing about the days when I hid my face in the folds of her house dress fills me with a bouquet of fragrances that are entrances into my past. Every corner of my grandmother’s house had a distinct aroma, inside and out. Avenue M is a station stop on the BMT Brighton Line of the New York City subway, and it was an elevated el train, level with the second floor and in the backyard of my grandparent’s home. Along with the screeching brakes that we could hear from the station, there was always a layer of putrid diesel fuel, which wafted through air like a backdrop to a play.

Inside the house was a cedar chest, whose smell is seared in my mind. Every time it was opened, which was often as a favorite hiding place for children, the smell filled the cedar paneled porch where we congregated daily to watch the parade of shoppers passing by toward Avenue M. Wood smells had a strong impact on my memory, like the inside of my grandfather’s server where obsessive compulsive disorder reigned supreme. Perfectly stacked piles of sorted coins stacked in rows against the side, money wrappers, rubber bands, paper clips, and piles of newspaper clipping stacked in metal, mesh baskets. Mike’s server was the secret place that I would go to get gold and red paper rings from the cigar cases that I could wear proudly on my all my fingers. All the contents of the chest melded together with the spicy, leathery smell of cigars and dried out cherry wood. My grandma’s end tables were slathered with layers of lemony Pledge, and each drawer held a world of adventure filled with a cacophony of smells. A prominent china closet that housed decks of playing cards when opened its trapped, stagnant air held the fragrant promise of afternoon games of Pinochle and Gold Fish. Not to forget an entire second floor, whose wooden floors filled the air with the antiquated wooden smell of a colonial house I had visited. These floors had never been sanded or shellacked and were responsible for many tears shed as a result of deep, painful splinters in the feet of children who refused, after being repeatedly warned, to “…put their slippers on.”
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With the sudden loss of my father two years ago, it is just now that memories are starting to surface, which brings clarity and understanding to my childhood. My father was a first generation Italian of Sicilian descent who was rooted in the old country even though he was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. My father Phil’s body might have been in Brooklyn, but he was firmly planted in nature in Lecara Friddi, Sicily. No one spoke English in his home, and in those days, when sent to public school, if you couldn’t speak English you were sent home until you learned. He was sent home and allowed back when he had a grasp on the language a year later.

As I age, I understand the conflicts that I had with my father were mainly based in basic geography.  Here was a man who was steeped in old world tradition and culture surrounded by a modern Italian American wife and five daughters and a son. He lived in perpetual culture shock. His background was such that the male was the head of the house, so he exercised his authority with an iron fist and strong determination to control what was oftentimes out of his control.

Nowadays I spend some of my leisure time thinking back on some of the memories that can help me better understand a man whose good intentions, pride, hard work and definition of honor and respect went oftentimes severely misunderstood.
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Every Wednesday, my grandmother used to take me to the Audubon Zoo, nestled amongst the oak trees in New Orleans. As usual we took the oldest form of transportation there, made famous in movies throughout the past century: the streetcar. My quarter plunked in the metal tin receptacle at the front of the car, and we made our way back to find our seats. In the summer months, the windows were open all the way, allowing the sticky humid New Orleans air to penetrate the car. Even with the windows open, the back of my thighs stuck to the wooden slated seats as I sat squashed next to my grandmother. Sweat-stained workmen mingled with Tulane scholars as the streetcar clacked along the rails towards our destination.

Once we were there, the zoo seemed like an amazing paradise. Tropical birds, jaguars, elephants, and sea lions represented a variety of animals from virtually every continent. As we made our way past the growling tigers and pacing lions, I fingered a little brown lunch sack with anticipation. It was a tradition, made by myself at the ripe old age of 3, that we would eat our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches by the giraffes every Wednesday. As we found a seat on the wooden park bench, I admired the graceful yet clumsy creatures. Their long necks, innocent eyes, and gentle natures appealed to me for reasons I still don’t quite understand.

I ate my sandwich with the peanut butter sticking to the roof of my mouth and washed it down eagerly with cold Sprite straight from the bottle. My grandmother was never in a hurry, and she allowed me all the time I needed to enjoy my lunch with the giraffes. After lunch was over, we would stroll through the rest of the zoo watching indigenous squirrels and sparrows fight over popcorn crumbs. Cocky peacocks strutted by displaying their feathers for all to see, and goldfish half my size begged for food from the center fountain.

When our day was over, we would pile back on the streetcar. The rhythmic rocking of the streetcar held me in a trance as it scuttled down the line. Just before I drifted off to sleep, I already began planning our next trip. After all, when you are 4 and with your grandmother, Wednesday can’t come soon enough.

It was probably 1984…or maybe it was 85. Either way, the day was cold; at least, cold for New Orleans. A wind chill in the 40′s threw most of our plans out of the window, all except for one–Mardi Gras.  I begged and pleaded with my father to take me downtown to the parade route, and against my mother’s best judgment he finally relented. So I got dressed in my costume, a handmade Rubik’s Cube costume, and piled into the station wagon. Beneath two layers of thermal underwear and gloves, I was all smiles. It was the festival of all festivals, the carnival of all carnivals. It was Mardi Gras, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

We drove uptown to the parade route and parked the car. My feet wouldn’t keep still in my lace up high tops; they were so full of excitement and anticipation. My father and I had worked on my Rubik’s Cube costume for weeks, and it was beautiful. In reality it was nothing more than a cardboard box with electrical tape and colorful paint, but in my mind, I was the best-dressed one out there. Most of the people we saw agreed, and I gladly posed for picture after picture on the cold neutraground.

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We’re here to help you share your stories, memories, or whatever else you have on your mind. Feel free to stop by and just read and reminisce, or engage yourself in the community and keep the memories flowing. The important part is to have fun!

As for our inspiration, we happened upon a post over at BoingBoing.com (a great blog, by the way). You can see this post here. It started simply enough with:

I had so much fun reading the Casa Bonita comments from fellow Denverites and ex-Denverites that I wanted to continue the conversation. Consider this an open thread about Denver popular culture.

And then it quickly ballooned into a “I remember that, but what about this” free-for-all. It was a lot of fun to read and from what I gather it was a lot of fun to post about. That’s what I want this community to be about. So, what do you say?

If you want to get in on the fun and start your own conversation, just register for an account here. Once you have an account, you can create a new post. Once your post is approved, the discussion can get going. Once the discussion gets going, the fun can start!

Let’s get started!