Now Imagine She’s Only Five Years Old
The year was around 1950. I was a five-year-old boy living at 2814 East 120th Street in Cleveland, right in the middle of the Hungarian neighborhood. All the houses on the street were two-family homes in which the upper story was rented. It was around then that I met the love of my life, Joycey, who was my age.
We did all the usual things: played doctor and looked at each other with moonstruck eyes. What I loved most about Joycey was, to be precise, the back of her knees. The picture above is of a grown-up woman, because I could not find the same picture for a little girl. I would probably have been arrested if I tried.
Although her name sounds vaguely Anglo, Joycey spoke Hungarian just like me. I don’t remember exactly how our “relationship” ended, though it was probably in 1951 when two major events happened:
- My brother Dan was born and
- We moved out of the Hungarian neighborhood because the teachers were complaining that I couldn’t speak English
I don’t think I ever knew Joycey’s last name. It was like we were two ships passing in the night. But it was nice while it lasted.