She had taken the same familiar park short-cut for nearly eight decades; ninety-three years had passed since Mrs. Milton’s birth. “Seven makes one hundred,” she chuffed, and momentarily wondered if they would put her picture in the paper.
The park held many wonderful memories, of course. The colorful playground contained primary colored slides, climbing devices and swings but the area had once been a small ice rink where children and aspiring lovers spent lazy winter afternoons. Her mind’s eye saw two bundled up boys laughing as they played chase across nature’s cold glass.
A modern art sculpture festooned a pavilion area that was home to a gaily decorated petting zoo in the early 1900s. Her sister was so afraid of the goats, and always hid behind their mother’s skirts whenever they approached.
Vendors of all sorts once lined the path and you could buy roasted chestnuts in the winter. How she loved those chestnuts! Her mouth watered at the thought of summer ice flavored with cherry, peppermint strings that made the tongue flop and flip, and always the cotton candy and popcorn smells.