It was 1953, and my husband and I had spent our honeymoon in the Pocono Mountains before stopping in Manhattan for a weekend on our way home to Virginia. (We have been married for 64 years now.)
I am sure that the New York of that era would look like a small town to us now, but to a couple of 20-year-olds on their first visit, it was magical.
We were awed and excited by the crowds, the buildings and the energy of the people. We stayed at the Taft Hotel, which we found to be luxurious, and got tickets for a Broadway show.
On the way to the theater, we stopped at a street vendor who was displaying an assortment of inexpensive jewelry. A lovely silver charm bracelet with little hearts caught my eye, and my new husband bought it for me. I was thrilled.
The show we saw was “John Murray Anderson’s Almanac” starring Harry Belafonte, whose every song elicited rounds of prolonged applause. My hands stung from the clapping.
It wasn’t until we returned to the hotel that I realized that the new bracelet was not on my wrist, undoubtedly a casualty of my enthusiastic response to Mr. Belafonte’s performance. I figured it was probably on the floor under my seat.
I hope it was found by a young woman who wore it for years and loved it as much as I did for the few hours it was mine.