Something that’s fascinating about memory is noticing what sticks in our minds creating a powerful imprint – even though years or decades have passed. One of these small yet magical memories that have staying power actually arose as a solution to a dilemma I faced as a young mother. Specifically, I was invited to speak at a conference; however, the date coincided with my younger son’s second birthday. I was grappling with the choice until I realized we could hold the family birthday party the Sunday two days before his birthday. In addition, I shared a special mother-son bonding adventure the day before his birthday: a horse and carriage ride through Central Park culminating in a vanilla ice-cream cone with rainbow sprinkles. A couple of years later, Josh out of the blue said, “Mommy, remember when we went on the horse-drawn carriage ride in Central Park with Squire?” It was surprising that he remembered this outing and the horse’s name to boot!
At the time, I had no idea that one afternoon could leave such a lasting imprint on a two-year-old. Years later, that memory resurfaced – not because Josh mentioned it again, but because I found myself wanting to recreate the same sense of wonder for another generation.
A few weeks ago, in anticipation of my oldest granddaughter’s 7th birthday, I thought it would be great fun to introduce the next generation to a spontaneous horse-drawn carriage experience in Central Park. On the taxi ride home from the airport that same week, while returning from giving a keynote at the Florida Health Care Association Nurse Leadership Annual Conference, I told one of my BFFs about my planned outing for the next day. Hence the expression, “Man plans, God laughs.” My friend mentioned that a tragedy had occurred the day before when a startled horse in Central Park caused its carriage to overturn, killing a tourist. No one was laughing as this accident ended a life and the 163-year Central Park carriage tradition. I’d never have the opportunity to share this quintessential New York tourist memory with my granddaughters or anyone else, for that matter.
Sometimes, though, life quietly reminds us that traditions we assume will always be there can disappear in an instant. If I couldn’t share that particular New York experience with my granddaughters, I would simply create a different adventure.
One of my mantras is “Never give up!” Undeterred, fast-forward to this past Sunday, the morning of a granddaughter sleep over, when my husband and I drove to Van Saun Park in Paramus, New Jersey, determined to create a lovely outing replete with multiple pony rides. I imagined the joy on their faces as our granddaughters enjoyed live pony rides at the park’s stables, followed by multiple rides on the carousel’s stunning painted ponies, giraffes, zebras, and tigers. Anticipatory savoring—creating a magical memory with my granddaughters circling the pony pen, negotiating for “just one more ride” on the carousel, and being enthralled with a miniature train ride through the park—actually threw me backward in time to remember dozens of family outings from my childhood experiencing the same rites of passage at Van Saun Park. My parents continued the trajectory, creating new memories through multiple excursions to the ponies and the park when my two sons were growing up.
Each year in the late summer, shortly before the Jewish New Year holidays commence, it is customary to visit the cemetery to pay respects to our deceased loved ones. As my mother and I approached Beth El Cemetery, we drove by the entrance to Van Saun Park, just 3.1 miles away from the cemetery gates. After an emotional graveside visit to my brother Gary and beloved father Charlie, as we drove through the meandering cemetery roadways to get back to the highway to New York City, I suggested that we stop at Van Saun Park. My mother is a brilliant woman and extremely cerebral. “That’s funny, Lisa,” she said, because she thought I was joking. “No, Mom, I mean it. Let’s go inside and take a trip down memory lane.” So, we did! We even went on the miniature locomotive—the site of so many happy coming-of-age memories. And as we came out of the faux coal-mining tunnel (—imagine a dark narrow passageway with paintings of a coal mine on either side that always scared me so I closed my eyes—), my mother explained, “I know this is going to sound bizarre, but I remember seeing bison in a field.” We both laughed out loud at the absurdity of two-ton mammals roaming the plains of Van Saun Park. Until… the train rounded another bend and there they were – two enormous bison grazing in the field, oblivious to our amazement. Our laughter continued until the conductor pulled up to the little red train station. Laughter surely is the antidote for despair. We sat on a park bench watching the children and families go round and round on the carousel as we enjoyed ice-cream sandwiches made of chocolate chip cookies with ice cream in between.
Looking back, I realize that our spontaneous detour to Van Saun Park with my mother became far more than a pleasant afternoon excursion. It was a reminder that places don’t simply hold memories – they awaken them. And, with that realization, I couldn’t wait to introduce my granddaughters to a place that had brought joy to three generations of our family.
But, just like the Central Park carriage ride that was never meant to be, our plans took another unexpected turn. As we pulled into the parking lot beside the pony stable, something felt different. There were no eager children waiting for their turn. No parents holding up cell phones to capture that first magical ride. No summer interns leading patient ponies around the ring.
There were no ponies.
For a brief moment, I felt disappointed. Then I smiled. Years of being a positive psychology practitioner have taught me that happiness is rarely found in perfectly executed plans. More often, happiness emerges from our willingness to adapt, to notice what endures, and to embrace the unexpected.
The carousel was still spinning. The miniature locomotive was still delighting children. My granddaughters were laughing, exploring, and fully immersed in the day. They weren’t mourning the experience they never had; they were busy creating the memories they would one day remember.
Memory is funny that way. We rarely know which memories will endure. It’s seldom the perfectly orchestrated occasions that stay with us. Instead, it’s the unexpected detours, the shared laughter, the ice cream, the stories, and the simple gift of being together.
My son remembers a horse named Squire decades after a single carriage ride. My mother and I laughed until we cried when the “imaginary” bison appeared right in front of our eyes, just beyond the tunnel. And perhaps, years from now, one of my granddaughters will turn to me and say, “Grandma, remember when we went to Van Saun Park?”
If she does, I doubt that she’ll remember whether there were ponies.
She’ll remember that we showed up.
And that’s the memory worth savoring.
