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Childhood Memories Quotes

“I knew you’d know,” Mom said in a stabilizing, more confident, yet still husky voice. A smile broke across her face in the simple relief of her only remaining child not being shocked by the death of her youngest. She smiled genuinely, perhaps for the first time since cradling Dustin’s body as the fire truck alarm blared towards the house in response to her 911 call. Her son had died that morning in her arms as she tried resuscitating him with her own breath, but the first indication of her daughter’s reaction was calm. The child raised to expect death met the first moments of the news with seeming serenity.”

BereavementSiblingChildhood MemoriesMuscular DystrophyMyotonic Muscular Dystrophy
Book:From My Mother
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“An insect hovers nearby. She can't remember what it's called: smaller than a dragonfly, with delicate mother-of-pearl wings. It skims the surface of the beck. She stays like that for a long time, listening to the birds, the water, the insects. She shuts her eyes, opening them again when she feels something brush her hand. The dragonfly-like creature with the iridescent wings. The word swims up from the depths of her brain: a damselfly. Tears well in her eyes, surprising her. She was fascinated by insects as a child. She remembers begging her mother to spare the moths that fluttered out from wardrobes, the gauzy spider's webs that clung to the ceiling. She'd collected vividly illustrated books about them. About birds, too. She would hide under the covers reading, in the small, silent hours of the morning while her parents slept in the next room. It hurts now, to think of that little girl, her innocent wonder: flashlight in hand, turning the glossy pages and marveling at the wild and wonderful creatures. Butterflies with eyes on their wings, parrots in candy-colored plumage.”

InsectsBirdsChildhood MemoriesChildlike WonderDamselfly
Book:Weyward
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“With the oysters, I'm at the shore, swimming in the heat of the day. She serves us baby cream biscuits and smoked peach butter that taste exactly like those we'd eat around her mother's table during a Sunday dinner, only better, tweaked in a way that makes me want to taste it again and again. Buttermilk panna cotta with spot prawns and spring vegetables pulls me right into lazy picnics in Delilah's backyard, when we'd gorge on plump peas, sweet tomatoes, crisp cucumbers. The tender shrimp and tart buttermilk--- all of this is our childhood on a plate. I never wanted to look too closely at that time, but it's slapping me tight in the face. Oddly, it doesn't hurt. Not this version. It feels fragile and rare, like I should be protecting it, like I should be proud of where we come from and who we are. And then the menu changes on me. The servers bring out what Delilah says is butter-poached cod with potato galette and shellfish emulsion dotted with petals of mango and peach. It is the clean taste of the sea; it is buttery velvet along my tongue, bright bursts of juicy fruit. Underneath it all is a crisp, airy version of what is essentially a gourmet tater tot. The taste is erotic. Heat and lust wash over me in a wave that has my balls clenching and my cock stiffening. I can't figure out why. Then it hits me like a kick to the chest. This dish is us. Frantic kissing on the beach, eating juicy mangos at the market, peaches and tater tots. She's created us. A compilation of all she holds dear.”

StorytellingChildhood MemoriesFood LoveAphrodisiacSouthern FoodCompilationsTater Tots
Book:Dear Enemy
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“Dad held Mama as if she were made of glass. So careful, so concerned for her well-being. It filled Leni with an impotent rage. And then she'd get a glimpse of him with tears in his eyes and the rage would turn soft and slide into something like forgiveness. She didn't know how to corral or change either of these emotions; her love for him was all tangled up in hate. Right now she felt both emotions crowding in on her, each jostling for the lead.”

ViolenceLove HurtsDomestic ViolenceViolence Against WomenChildhood MemoriesChildhood TraumaDomestic AbuseConflicting EmotionsAbuse Cycle
Book:The Great Alone
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“Christine had gone into the city archives, found them in an old City of Edmonton telephone book. Her family was in a book. Her family and herself were defined by a street, an avenue, and a phone number. This line of type will rearrange itself into a story of ghosts in that place. A story of her ghost. Christine thought of herself as a child, with no idea of the world but all the ideas of the world. Maybe this was her dream self. She wasn't sure anymore.”

ImageryChildhood MemoriesBeautiful WritingPoetic FictionGhosts Of The Past
Book:Broke City
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“During the season, they saw each other and played together almost every day. At the aunt's request, seconded by Professor Valérius, Daaé consented to give the young viscount some violin lessons. In this way, Raoul learned to love the same airs that had charmed Christine's childhood. They also both had the same calm and dreamy little cast of mind. They delighted in stories, in old Breton legends; and their favorite sport was to go and ask for them at the cottage-doors, like beggars: "Ma'am..." or, "Kind gentleman... have you a little story to tell us, please?" And it seldom happened that they did not have one "given" them; for nearly every old Breton grandame has, at least once in her life, seen the "korrigans" dance by moonlight on the heather. But their great treat was, in the twilight, in the great silence of the evening, after the sun had set in the sea, when Daaé came and sat down by them on the roadside and in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should frighten the ghosts whom he loved, told them the legends of the land of the North. And, the moment he stopped, the children would ask for more. There was one story that began: "A king sat in a little boat on one of those deep still lakes that open like a bright eye in the midst of the Norwegian mountains..." And another: "Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Her hair was golden as the sun's rays and her soul as clear and blue as her eyes. She wheedled her mother, was kind to her doll, took great care of her frock and her little red shoes and her fiddle, but most of all loved, when she went to sleep, to hear the Angel of Music." While the old man told this story, Raoul looked at Christine's blue eyes and golden hair; and Christine thought that Lotte was very lucky to hear the Angel of Music when she went to sleep. The Angel of Music played a part in all Daddy Daaé's tales; and he maintained that every great musician, every great artist received a visit from the Angel at least once in his life. Sometimes the Angel leans over their cradle, as happened to Lotte, and that is how their are little prodigies who play the fiddle at six better than fifty, which, you must admit, is very wonderful. Sometimes, the Angel comes much later, because the children are naughty and won't learn their lessons or practice their scales. And, sometimes, he does not come at all, because the children have a bad heart or a bad conscience. No one ever sees the Angel; but he is heard by those who are meant to hear him. He often comes when they least expect him, when they are sad or disheartened. Then their ears suddenly perceive celestial harmonies, a divine voice, which they remember all their lives. Persons who are visited by the Angel quiver with a thrill unknown to the rest of mankind. And they can not touch an instrument, or open their mouths to sing, without producing sounds that put all other human sounds to shame. Then people who do not know that the Angel has visited those persons say that they have genius. Little Christine asked her father if he had heard the Angel of Music. But Daddy Daaé shook his head sadly; and then his eyes lit up, as he said: "You will hear him one day, my child! When I am in Heaven, I will send him to you!" Daddy was beginning to cough at that time.”

FatherChildhood MemoriesGhost StoriesChristine DaaeAngel Of MusicRaoul De ChagnyGustave DaaeKorrigan
Book:The Phantom of the Opera
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“Her grandmother's cooking area was small- a tiny sink, no dishwasher, a bit of a counter- but out of it came tortellini filled with meat and nutmeg and covered in butter and sage, soft pillows of gnocchi, roasted chickens that sent the smell of lemon and rosemary slipping through the back roads of the small town, bread that gave a visiting grandchild a reason to unto the kitchen on cold mornings and nestle next to the fireplace, a hunk of warm, newly baked breakfast in each hand.”

GrandmotherChildhood MemoriesItalian CookingAntonia
Book:The School of Essential Ingredients
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“Some people smoked when they were upset, some did yoga, or drank, or paced, or picked fights, or counted to one hundred. Georgia cooked. As a small girl growing up in Massachusetts, she'd spent most of her time in her grandmother's kitchen, watching wide-eyed as Grammy kneaded the dough for her famous pumpernickel bread, sliced up parsnips and turnips for her world-class pot roast, or, if she was feeling exotic, butterflied shrimp for her delicious Thai basil seafood. A big-boned woman of solid peasant stock, as she herself used to say, Grammy moved around the cramped kitchen with grace and efficiency, her curly gray hair twisted into a low bun. Humming pop songs from the forties, her cheeks a pleasing pink, she turned out dish after fabulous dish from the cranky Tappan stove she refused to replace. Those times with Grammy were the happiest Georgia could remember. It had been almost a year since she died, and not a day passed that Georgia didn't miss her. She pulled out half a dozen eggs, sliced supermarket Swiss and some bacon from the double-width Sub-Zero. A quick scan of the spice rack yielded a lifetime supply of Old Bay seasoning, three different kinds of peppercorns, and 'sel de mer' from France's Brittany coast. People's pantries were as perplexing as their lives.”

CookingIngredientsChildhood MemoriesGrammyPantryImportedOmeletStimulantGeorgia Gray
Book:Georgia's Kitchen
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“It became a game that I took to with immense gusto: to see how much I could remember about dandelions themselves, or picking wild grapes with my father and brother, rediscovering the mosquito-breeding ground rain barrel by the side bay window, or searching out the smell of the gold-fuzzed bees that hung around our back porch grape arbor. Bees do have a smell, you know, and if they don't they should, for their feet are dusted with spices from a million flowers.”

BeesChildhood MemoriesSummertimeRemembrance Of Things Past
Book:Dandelion Wine
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“Why, how, did my mother start making her birds? I don't know; I never asked. I suppose it was like growing up with a mother who goes to church on Sundays or gets her hair done every two weeks. Why? How? But the child whose mother goes to church on Sundays does not ask those questions, because to that child, it is a perfectly normal thing to do, to go sit on hard benches in a roomful of people discussing the specifics of a fairy tale (yes, I've shown my hand here, I suppose, but sooner or later you and I will have to have this discussion) and then having cookies and coffee afterward and chatting about the weather.”

MotherReligionChurchChildhoodMotherhoodBirdsMothers And DaughtersChildhood Memories
Book:Tilt
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“And then, on the final day, it was time for the faux Underground Railroad. This is the part that no one believes. "No adult would ever do that," they say. "You can't be remembering that right." I am, in fact, remembering it perfectly. The counselors "shackled" us together with jump ropes so we were "like slave families" and then released us into the woods. We were given a map with a route to "freedom" in "the North", which must have been only three or four hundred feet but felt like much more. Then a counselor on horseback followed ten minutes later, acting as a bounty hunter. Hearing hooves, I crouched being a rock with Jason Baujelais and Sari Brooker, begging them to be quiet so we weren't caught and "whipped." I was too young, self-involved, and dissociated to wonder what kind of impact this had on my black classmates. All I knew was that I was miserable. We heard the sound of hooves growing closer and Max Kitnick's light asthma wheezes from beind an oak tree. "Shut up," Jason hissed, and I knew we were cooked. When the counselor appeared, Sari started to cry.”

AbsurdHilariousChildhood MemoriesLudicrous
Book:Not That Kind of Girl: A Young Woman Tells You What She's "Learned"
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“Monkstown Hospital by Stewart Stafford My first time away from Mam, Tonsillectomy at six years old, Teddy bear fights Action Man, Pinball Pocketeer for company. Silver torch lights the dark hours, A miniscule pack of playing cards, A made-up game played undercover, My best guess of what picture follows. An older man awaits surgery too, Seeing that I'm alone and scared, He draws pictures to amuse me or, We watch "funnies" in the TV room. Waking from the operation in the bed, Congealed blood covers my pyjamas, My mother makes her shock known, We go home for my First Communion. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

MemoryHospitalsMentorChildhood MemoriesChildhood TraumaHospitalHomesicknessHomesickOperationTonsils
Author:Stewart Stafford
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“Alone in the kitchen, without Zod's supervision, he found himself turning to the wholesome food of his childhood, not only for the comfort the simple compositions offered, but because it was what he knew so well as he set about preparing a homecoming feast for Zod's only son. He pulled two kilos of java beans from the freezer. Gathered last May, shucked and peeled on a quiet afternoon, they defrosted in a colander for a layered frittata his mother used to make with fistfuls of dill and sprinkled with sea salt. One flat of pale green figs and a bushel of new harvest walnuts were tied to the back of his scooter, along with two crates of pomegranates- half to squeeze for fresh morning juice and the other to split and seed for rice-and-meatball soup. Three fat chickens pecked in the yard, unaware of their destiny as he sharpened his cleaver. Tomorrow they would braise in a rich, tangy stew with sour red plums, their hearts and livers skewered and grilled, then wrapped in sheets of lavash with bouquets of tarragon and mint. Basmati rice soaked in salted water to be steamed with green garlic and mounds of finely chopped parsley and cilantro, then served with a whole roasted, eight kilo white fish stuffed with barberries, pistachios, and lime. On the farthest burner, whole bitter oranges bobbed in blossom syrup, to accompany rice pudding, next to a simmering pot of figs studded with cardamom pods for preserves.”

RiceSpicesHerbsChildhood MemoriesFigsChickenPersian Cuisine
Book:The Last Days of Café Leila
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“You may have terrible memories from your childhood . . . horrific memories that no one should live through. Especially not a child. If this has been your experience, and you've placed those memories in a vault, locked them away, and buried the key, who could blame you? But, by doing so, what else--besides your memories--have you placed in that vault? May I gently suggest that perhaps you've climbed in there yourself, closed the door, and locked it behind you? If so, you may be effectively locking out those who could help you.”

Childhood MemoriesLocked DoorsGetting HelpPast Hurt
Book:What Your Childhood Memories Say about You . . . and What You Can Do about It
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“Remember how you played in these orchards as young girls?" Willo asked Deana and Sam. Deana turned to look at Sam, and the two smiled. "We do," they said at the same time. These orchards had been their playground as girls. Sam slowed even more and studied the orchards carefully. I ran, played hide-and-seek, caught fireflies, scaled trees, picked apples and peaches straight off the tree, launched pits from slingshots, and danced in the sprinkles here. Sam thought. Moreover, I learned about plants and science: I understood the seasons, when to plant trees and seeds, how to nurture them and protect them from insects, what to feed the deer in winter and the hummingbirds in summer. Sam again thought of her grandpa. If we're good to Mother Nature, she will be good to us, he always used to tell her. Same goes for people.”

MotherGrandmotherMother NatureChildhood MemoriesPlaygroundOrchardsSam Mullins
Book:The Recipe Box
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“Jocul, ispravit mereu printr-o cazatura, nu era decat o poveste care anunta viitorul. Asa cum sunt toate jocurile copilariei: marionetele ne arata cat de scurta si de tulburata ne e viata, de-a v-ati ascunselea ne invata cum se cauta emotiile, Inelus-invartecus, cat ai de alergat ca sa-ti indeplinesti dorintele, iar de-a baba oarba, dragostea oarba si dibuitul.”

Educational PhilosophyChildhood MemoriesGames Of Life
Book:Catherine-Paris
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“As a child, we sang those precious songs at church and school. At home, we sang along with the singers on the Lawrence Welk Christmas show, and there used to be so many Christmas specials—Andy Williams and Perry Como. I loved the bouncing ball on the Mitch Miller sing-along show. And of course, we watched “The Ed Sullivan Show” weekly and loved his Christmas special. I never grew tired of them.”

FunJourneyMiracleMemoirWarmthCelebrationDelightfulChildhood MemoriesPine TreeTreasure Trove
Book:Hair on Fire: A Heartwarming & Humorous Christmas Memoir
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“After another forty-five minutes, the train reached the station at Heron's Point, a seaside town located in the sunniest region in England. Even now in autumn, the weather was mild and clear, the air humid with healthful sea breezes. Heron's Point was sheltered by a high cliff that jutted far out into the sea and helped to create the town's own small climate. It was an ideal refuge for convalescents and the elderly, with a local medical community and an assortment of clinics and therapeutic baths. It was also a fashionable resort, featuring shops, drives and promenades, a theatre, and recreations such as golf and boating. The Marsdens had often come here to stay with the duke's family, the Challons, especially in summer. The children had splashed and swum in the private sandy cove, and sailed near the shore in little skiffs. On hot days they had gone to shop in town for ices and sweets. In the evenings, they had relaxed and played on the Challons' back veranda, while music from the town band floated up from the concert pavilion. Merritt was glad to bring Keir to a familiar place where so many happy memories had been created. The seaside house, airy and calm and gracious, would be a perfect place for him to convalesce.”

Childhood MemoriesMerritt SterlingResortMarsdensChallonsSeasideHerons Point
Book:Devil in Disguise
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“Two nights after the Chaworth ball, Gabriel practiced at the billiards table in the private apartments above Jenner's. The luxurious rooms, which had once been occupied by his parents in the earlier days of their marriage, were now reserved for the convenience of the Challon family. Raphael, one of his younger brothers, usually lived at the club, but at the moment was on an overseas trip to America. He'd gone to source and purchase a large quantity of dressed pine timber on behalf of a Challon-owned railway construction company. American pine, for its toughness and elasticity, was used as transom ties for railways, and it was in high demand now that native British timber was in scarce supply. The club wasn't the same without Raphael's carefree presence, but spending time alone here was better than the well-ordered quietness of his terrace at Queen's Gate. Gabriel relished the comfortably masculine atmosphere, spiced with scents of expensive liquor, pipe smoke, oiled Morocco leather upholstery, and the acrid pungency of green baize cloth. The fragrance never failed to remind him of the occasions in his youth when he had accompanied his father to the club. For years, the duke had gone almost weekly to Jenner's to meet with managers and look over the account ledgers. His wife Evie had inherited it from her father, Ivo Jenner, a former professional boxer. The club was an inexhaustible financial engine, its vast profits having enabled the duke to improve his agricultural estates and properties, and accumulate a sprawling empire of investments. Gaming was against the law, of course, but half of Parliament were members of Jenner's, which had made it virtually exempt from prosecution. Visiting Jenner's with his father had been exciting for a sheltered boy. There had always been new things to see and learn, and the men Gabriel had encountered were very different from the respectable servants and tenants on the estate. The patrons and staff at the club had used coarse language and told bawdy jokes, and taught him card tricks and flourishes. Sometimes Gabriel had perched on a tall stool at a circular hazard table to watch high-stakes play, with his father's arm draped casually across his shoulders. Tucked safely against the duke's side, Gabriel had seen men win or lose entire fortunes in a single night, all on the tumble of dice.”

Childhood MemoriesFather And SonSebastian St VincentClubGabriel St VincentFamily BackgroundFamily BusinessEvangeline And SebastianRaphael Challon
Book:Devil in Spring
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“Sirine learned about food from her parents. Even though her mother was American, her father always said his wife thought about food like an Arab. Sirine's mother strained the salted yogurt through cheesecloth to make creamy labneh, stirred the onion and lentils together in a heavy iron pan to make mjeddrah, and studded joints of lamb with fat cloves of garlic to make roasted kharuf. Sirine's earliest memory was of sitting on a phone book on a kitchen chair, the sour-tart smell of pickled grape leaves in the air. Her mother spread the leaves flat on the table like little floating hands, placed the spoonful of rice and meat at the center of each one, and Sirine with her tiny fingers rolled the leaves up tighter and neater than anyone else could- tender, garlicky, meaty packages that burst in the mouth.”

Childhood MemoriesMiddle Eastern Cuisine
Book:Crescent
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“Notwithstanding the pressure in the room, this was always an emotional moment for Grace Lyndon, when someone was experiencing a scent she had created. When Grace was a little girl, her mother became very sick and lost her ability to hold down food, and in her final days lost her sight. But her sense of smell remained, strong as ever, and young Grace would bring to her mother's bedside fresh cut flowers, lilac and iris and tea rose, the sweet scents infusing the room with light and earth and memories long forgotten, and Grace brought in special foods to smell, like warm orange-ginger rolls, glazed and fragrant as winter holiday mornings, and cotton linens, laundered in lavender water and line-dried so you could smell the sun in them, and slices of ripe apples, a scent so perfect that in the end, it made her mother cry bittersweetly.”

Childhood MemoriesMother And DaughterScentsGrace LyndonSense Of Smell
Book:The Orchard
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“She had memories of a quiet pool in the woods, where she'd retreat with her books, hiding from chores that needed to be done around the house. She remembered the sound of her parents after sunset, calling her to come home. The fireflies would flicker around her as it became too dark to read, but still she'd stay, to watch the fireflies over the water and listen to the birds and the squirrels settle in for the night and the night hunters, the owls and and the cats, begin to wake. Once, she'd even glimpsed a unicorn sipping from the pond, but it could have been only a white deer and a trick of the twilight. Another afternoon, her father had come with her, avoiding his chores too. They'd read books side by side, and her mother hadn't said a word when they'd returned. A week later, her mother had been the one to join her by the pond, arriving with lunch in a basket and presenting Kiela with a new unread book, a rare treasure on the island.”

BooksChildhood MemoriesMom And DadSummer NightsFantasy World
Book:The Spellshop
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“As we walked homeward across the fields, the sun dropped and lay like a great golden globe in the low west. While it hung there, the moon rose in the east, as big as a cart-wheel, pale silver and streaked with rose color, thin as a bubble or a ghost-moon. For five, perhaps ten minutes, the two luminaries confronted each other across the level land, resting on opposite edges of the world. In that singular light every little tree and shock of wheat, every sunflower stalk and clump of snow-on-the-mountain, drew itself up high and pointed; the very clods and furrows in the fields seemed to stand up sharply. I felt the old pull of the earth, the solemn magic that comes out of those fields at nightfall. I wished I could be a little boy again, and that my way could end there.”

HeavenChildhood MemoriesBeauty In NatureFarm Life
Book:My Ántonia
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“Sisters, while they are growing up, tend to be very rivalrous and as young mothers they are given to continual rivalrous comparisons of their several children. But once the children grow older, sisters draw closer together and often, in old age, they become each other's chosen and most happy companions. In addition to their shared memories of childhood and of their relationship to each other's children, they share memories of the same home, the same homemaking style, and the same small prejudices about housekeeping that carry the echoes of their mother's voice.”

ChildrenHomeAgeTogetherYoungMotherGivenGrowsVoiceMemoriesGrowing UpGrowingShareChildhoodStyleDrawsPrejudiceChosenOld AgeComparisonCompanionEchoesChildhood MemoriesHousekeepingOlder SisterYoung MotherHomemaking
Author:Margaret Mead
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