Friday, February 24, 2006

the stuff you remember. I've never won one of those big stuffed animals at a carnival or a fair. And no one has ever won me one. Well, I suppose I should admit that they tried, but then I would choose a different prize like a painted Japanese fan or a keychain in the shape of a heart or something. One day, my friend Casey -- who wanted to be more than my friend -- insisted I should have a giant pink bear of my very own. But when he went to throw the ball to earn me one, I confessed that I thought they looked really cheap and the fur felt itchy and I probably wouldn't even want to keep it in my room. He was incredulous. "What kind of girl says something like that? I'd be winning it for you. Doesn't that count for anything?" We didn't end up dating. I had the best ski jackets, always. They were pastel-coloured and totally impractical, because I'd go shopping with my dad and he was a sucker for the rhapsodic look I'd get when I tried on some confection of pale pink, green, purple, and blue triangles, or snow-white quilted down. My mother would be quietly horrified when we arrived home, knowing that as soon as I stained one of these coats (which was nothing if not inevitable) my love for them would wither to half... if that. When I was in junior high, there was a certain kind of purse that all the older girls seemed to have that I really, really wanted. It was a sack-like design with odd pleats and a bucket-bottom and sturdy straps, always in black leather, and absolutely riddled with buttons and keychains and baubles. If the girl was a bit of a badass, she'd have a button that said, "1% Angel, 99% Bitch" or "You Are Entitled To My Opinion." Considering that we had a gazillion teen moms attending classes at my school because of our innovative day care centre, they often had baby picture keychains dangling there, too, or a tiny Rubik's cube, or long strings of feathers and beads, or a soccer ball or basketball or bat, if they were on one of the senior teams. They never went anywhere without these purses, these receptacles of gum and cigarettes and feminine hygeine products and who knows what else. They seemed like badges of age and maturity, really -- even moreso than wearing a strapless dress to junior dances (which I was not allowed to do.) I longed to have things (that weren't schoolbooks) deemed important enough to carry everywhere. But I had a habit of losing purses, and my Bonne Bell lipgloss and change for the Coke machine fit just fine in the front pocket of my backpack. I went to the variety store at the mall to pick up some buttons, but all of them had swear words or some kind of vague allusion to sex, and, well... I had a bob haircut and wore penny loafers. No one was going to buy that kind of cool from me. I finally settled on one that was just a yellow circle happy face, but with a straight line for a mouth. It said, "Have A Day." My parents thought it was funny, but no one at school got the joke at all. Eventually I took off the button and gave up on my purse dreams in favour of backpack nerddom. I did the Jane Fonda workout every day in the sixth grade. I loved it. And I loved pepperoni from the deli near our elementary school, along with salt and vinegar chips. Sour keys, too. I also learned to play "Proud Mary" on the ukelele and the recorder that year. In seventh grade, I fell in love with salad bars and Rocky Mountain Fries with extra salt. And pastries from Ed's Bakery that I would go on assignment to buy for my family on lazy Saturday mornings. I had fish named Charles and Diana. Charles died first in the Fish Royal Family. I also had a gold cassette tape of Charles and Diana's wedding and paper dolls and picture books and gazillions of magazines related to their union. When they eventually split up, I lost track of all of that stuff. But the fishes were long gone anyway. When I was six, seven, eight years old, my parents' best friends had a big trampoline out at their acreage. I loved that thing. I couldn't believe how much I craved the feeling of endlessly bouncing up and down. As soon as we'd get there, I'd be on the trampoline, much to the irritation of their eldest daughter -- who had a black purse like the kind I would end up wanting so desperately a few years later -- who wanted me to sit on the floor of her bedroom and listen to her talk about boys. One day, while jumping alone as everyone else ate dinner -- and for the life of me, I can't think how I managed to do that with my mother for a mother -- I jumped so hard I peed my pale green clamdiggers. This was the very essence of embarassment to my seven year-old self. I had to borrow pants to wear home. I didn't do the trampoline thing for a long time. In fact, the next time I remember (though there were no doubt jumps in the intervening years) was when I was babysitting at a house with a much bigger trampoline. I hopped up to play with the littlest kid, and within moments, was once again relishing the delicious feeling of being airborne. What I didn't notice in the midst of my reverie was that his sippy cup had fallen into the middle of the webbing and was dripping onto the surface of the trampoline. I went to do a sit-bounce and soaked my pants clean through. For a split second, I was a horrified seven year-old again, until I saw that the liquid on my white jeans was Sharkleberry Fin-pink. Every time my family moved, I lost some small thing I absolutely adored to the packing and unpacking and chaos of a transition. There are three objects that I was unable to ever recover or replace: A Love's Baby Soft roll-on that smelled really lemony and fresh. That was lost in the move from Edmonton. A grape-flavoured lip gloss that didn't taste like fake grapes, but real ones. Lost in the move to Chilliwack. A small white polar bear. Lost in the move to Calgary. It went by the name of Winston, as in Churchill. I would secretly search for these things for months, hoping they'd pop up. I wonder where they are now? The stuff you remember. 12:04:52 AM    well, yes, but...  []

© Copyright 2006 Meg Fowler. Last update: 3/4/06; 2:32:48 PM.