For me it’s this little toy here. I had this play iron when I was just under two years old. I played with it, constantly. When I was six years old, I cut the pulling mechanism (a long, yellow flexible “cord”) to make it look more like my mother’s iron. Her iron, after all, didn’t follow obediently behind her, so why should mine trudge along behind me? To be fair, her iron also didn’t play music or have eyes that rolled up and down, nor a steam button that chirpily squeaked…
But such are the thoughts of a six year old.
This iron here and I were the closest of pals, he joined me on many an ironing adventure. The clothes of my dolls were run over (with merry abandon!) many, many times. Forever ironed, but forever hopelessly wrinkled, too.
When we moved from Southern California to Northern California, my treasured friend disappeared. I was sad beyond measure. I remember crying, multiple times, as I looked through all of my possessions hoping to find my favorite toy. But he was gone.
Such things happen to seven year olds. And life went on.
When I was 22, my ex-husband and I went to visit my grandmother in Southern California. I was working my way through college as a teacher’s aide. I worked with Pre-Ks…which is something my maternal grandmother and I had in common: she had been a Sunday School teacher to the under-fives set for over 20 years. She’d retired from that the year before, but she and I were talking about the trials and tribulations of teaching ones so young. I said “Sometimes the hardest thing to do is keep them entertained!” She nodded, knowingly, and said “I have some things you can have that might help with that.” She went into her office room and brought out a cardboard box top filled with toys. And on the top of the pile was my iron friend. I ran to her and plucked my iron from the top, shrieking “MY IRON!!! He’s HEEEERRRRRE!!” Then I went to the middle of the living room, dropped to my knees and began pushing the iron back and forth across the floor, squealing and squeaking happily for several minutes. When I finally looked up, both my grandmother and ex-husband had tears in their eyes. I asked my grandmother “How did you end up with my iron?” She’d told me that my mother had given it to her when we’d moved to Northern California. She had been able to use it to entertain her Sunday School kids.
My grandmother gave me all of the toys in that box lid. She said “But that iron, that’s for you.”
And each time I have moved, in the 34 years since, my iron is put into a tote bag that I keep with me. I put the things that I most value in that tote bag and hand carry it into each and every new abode. My iron is always put into the bag, first.
Such is the manner of a sentimental adult.
Years ago, Don asked me the name of the friend that I (clearly!) treasure so much. We had been talking about our favorite toys and I had shared that I’d named my oldest, favorite stuffed animal (a pink dog given to me by my mother’s brother) Pinkie. A mouse friend I had called Mousey…and so it went. You’re gathering a sense of my very original naming convention, I’m sure.
I looked at him, blankly. I had never named my iron. He was an iron after all.
Such had been the thoughts of a six year old.
My most treasured toy was never named.
And that, my friends, is… Irony.
🌻