Last month we went for breakfast on Main Street, and even before we get our food I'm pulling out my latest treasure. It's a book I've bought online after hours of searching called I Used to Be An Artichoke, by Maureen McGinn."You remember this one?" I ask mom, beaming childishly.
"Oh, yes," mom says, encouraging my enthusiasm.
I begin to pour over the book. 'A' to 'Z,' this little veggie morfs from one object to the next before eventually coming back to becoming an Artichoke. My mom smiles with me at the pictures.
I recently celebrated a quiet birthday at my parents' with fried chicken, the grandparents, Apples to Apples. I'm taking turn opening my gifts with my grandmother, whose birthday is a day after mine. I'm coming accross the usual suspects--cards, gifts certificates, journals--and I'm down to one more. I figure I'll breeze through the last one before getting to the cake, so I'm ripping paper off corner. My fingers flinch as soon I'm looking at the back covers of two books from a favorite children's series growing up. Then to my joy two accompanying cassette tapes pop out, and I'm thinking, it's my party, I can cry if I want to.
Yesterday we went to my parents' house to borrow a calculator, but even an innocent errand like this doesn't escape mom's ability to stoke the flames of my nostalgia. While daughter-in-law catches up with mother-in-law, I glance toward the door and spot the gem. An older than dirt copy of Walter Farley's Littl Black, a Pony. Beaten-up, scotch-tape beauty. We're saying goodbyes when I pose with the book, smiling. "Yes, you found it!" mom says. "I thought of retaping the binding, but I figured it's charming like it is." That is, darlingly delapidated. I take the brave pony with us and feel like I've gained the world.
I know you're wondering how I can be so lucky to have such frequent thrills of nostalgia without being crushed by its joy. It takes a lot of practice. Which means I'll be back with more greats from my childhood.
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