DeafAmanda

Some of my childhood memories take me back to the days when I accompanied my mother to work at a factory. I don’t remember every detail of how those visits came about, but I do remember how much I treasured that time with her. With my four older sisters at school, I had Mom to myself for a while, without the usual distractions of home. Looking back now, I realize how much those ordinary moments have stayed with me.

I remember going with Mom when my Deaf school was closed, and I seem to recall accompanying her once or twice when I was sick, too. Eventually, she found a babysitter for the days I was unwell. Although some of the details have faded over the years, I still remember spending time with Mom and getting to know the people I met during those visits.

Mom worked at the factory attaching beautiful earrings to display cards. Sometimes I helped her with her work, while other times I wandered around when I was supposed to be staying put. Mom usually let me get away with it as long as the boss wasn’t around. Of course, there were times when I wasn’t interested in helping at all. If Mom asked me to do something, I might simply tell her, “Nope, not right now, Mom.”

She also kept playing cards at her workstation. When I wanted to play by myself, I could play solitaire. If Mom wanted to play with me, we could play Go Fish together. Those little moments gave us different ways to spend time together while she worked.

The building itself was a warehouse, with white walls, rows of silver metal shelving lined with gray cubbies, and workstations scattered throughout the space. There were two large open areas connected by doorways big enough for an eighteen-wheeler to pass through. Even though the building was large, I found ways to keep myself occupied while Mom worked.

As I learned more about history in school, I began to think differently about the work Mom did. I remember learning about people who worked in factories, although I can’t recall exactly which lesson brought those memories to mind. What I do remember is that learning about factory workers helped me appreciate the effort that went into their jobs. Watching Mom at work gave me a glimpse of that kind of labor, too. I came to realize that, although I respected the work people did, factory work wasn’t for me. I liked variety, different activities, and opportunities to interact with different people. Even at school, I enjoyed having different groups and activities throughout the day, whether it was gym with one group or art with another. Having a change of pace kept my mind engaged.

One of the people I got to know during those visits was Carol. I don’t remember how we first started talking, but I remember sitting on a stool at her table and chatting with her. Carol worked in the other open area of the warehouse, at a table not far from where Mom worked. This meant I could spend time with Carol while Mom stayed close enough to keep an eye on me. Carol had a bubbly, enthusiastic personality that made me feel welcome, and I felt comfortable around her. Before long, spending time with her became one of the things I looked forward to whenever I visited the factory.

Eventually, Carol invited me to her home for a sleepover. I was looking forward to spending time with her, and she happened to have two beautiful twin daughters, Courtney and Caitlyn, who kept me occupied during my visit. At one point, Carol needed to make a quick run and left me with the girls for a little while. I can’t remember how old I was or what Courtney and Caitlyn had in their hands, but I remember the three of us sitting on the floor while it was still light outside. I also remember nagging Courtney quite a bit.

As far as I can remember, that was the only sleepover I had at Carol’s home. Not long afterward, Mom changed jobs, and the factory eventually closed. Without that shared workplace, I no longer had the opportunity to see Carol regularly. Sometimes I wonder whether there might have been more sleepovers and other memories to look back on if they had continued working at the same place. I’ll never know, but I’m grateful for the time we did have.

One of my favorite memories with Carol was a visit to Slater Park, where she took me and her daughters to the festival. I remember the crowds of people walking around, people talking, and the rides operating nearby. I remember looking at her face to communicate with her verbally. As a Deaf person in the busy space, I stayed close to her side so I could follow her.

Carol seemed to head straight for the Looff carousel, and we spent a good part of our visit there. I rode the carousel horses and collected brass rings, which made the experience especially memorable. Unlike other carousels I’d experienced, this one had a section where people could toss rings for fun. That extra activity made the ride even more enjoyable, and Carol told me to keep one of the rings.

At the time, it was simply a brass ring from a day at the park. I had no idea how much it would mean to me years later.

When it was time to leave, I remember walking back, although I can’t recall whether we drove to the park or how we got there. The details of that day have faded, but the carousel and the ring have stayed with me. I still have it, and now that Carol is gone, it has become something I treasure deeply. Holding it brings me back to that day and reminds me of the time we spent together. It’s a small object, but it connects me to a person who made a lasting impression on my childhood.

There was one more time I saw Carol, years after Mom had left the factory. Carol came to visit my mother at our brown-and-yellow house in Providence, Rhode Island. I happened to be in the same room when she walked in, and I was genuinely happy to see her again. It was a short visit, and I had no reason to think it would be the last time I would ever see her.

Years passed. I grew up, became a mother to two beautiful children, and eventually found myself living in another state. Before moving even farther away from home, I wanted to reconnect with people from my past, and Carol was someone I hoped to find again. I wanted the chance to catch up and hear how her life had unfolded. I thought there might still be time to reconnect with someone who had been such a lovely part of my childhood.

Instead, I found her name on an obituary website.

At first, I was stunned. I kept thinking, No, no, no, no. Then came the question I couldn’t stop asking myself: What happened?! I cried as the reality sank in. I was devastated and heartbroken. I couldn’t believe she was gone, and I regretted not reaching out sooner. I had waited, believing there would still be time to find her again. When I shared the news with my mother, she was shocked, too.

It’s difficult to explain what it feels like to discover that someone you hoped to see again has passed away. So much time had gone by since our last meeting, and I had imagined there would be another opportunity to reconnect. Now, that opportunity is gone. I’ll never get the chance to tell Carol how much I appreciated the time we spent together or how fondly I remember her.

But I can remember her.

I remember the woman who welcomed a young girl into her space, invited her into her home, took her to a carousel at Slater Park, and told her to keep a brass ring. I remember those experiences, even if some of the details have slipped away over the years. And I still have that little ring, a piece of an ordinary day that has become extraordinary to me because of the person connected to it.

I can’t go back and make more memories with Carol, and I can’t tell her what she meant to me. But I can make sure her memory doesn’t end with me.

That’s why I’m sharing this story. I may not remember every detail of my time with Carol, but I remember enough to know that she mattered to me. Our lives took different directions, and we lost touch, but the memories we made stayed with me long after those factory days were over.

Do you have someone from your childhood who left a lasting mark on your life? Maybe there’s a memory or a small keepsake that brings that person back to you years later. If you’d like to share it, I’d love to hear about the memories you’ve carried with you.