September 2, 2007
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Miscellany
Old toys
A few years ago I came across a bunch of old stuffed animals for sale on Ebay. They were beautifully photographed and I wish now I'd kept the images. Slouchy old bears, the fuzz almost rubbed off their brittle casings, eyes missing or hanging by a thread, exposed dusty stuffing where seams had long since given up their stitches.
I showed the images to a friend, who said she wished they were hers, and I understood what she meant. She didn't want to buy them in that state, beautiful though they were. She simply wished she had loved something that well to still have it, years later, all tattered and worn. She didn't want just an old toy, she wanted an old toy that had been hers as a kid.
Arisa, my niece, is 16 and she has an old blanket that travels with her. It's small, crib-sized, and buttery soft from many, many washings. The ends are frayed and over the years the fabric has developed some worn spots that get thinner with each washing. She can't sleep without it.
I worry sometimes that Hannah doesn't have a favorite object. No grimy bear, no special blanket, nothing for which she'd tear the place apart if she hadn't seen it in over a week. She loves stuffed animals and the more she has the more she seems to want. And that holds true for almost everything: more is better and desired. This seems to be something she has in common with Isabelle, the bear's owner and her friend, according to her mother, Jane. But Isabelle clearly has some things to which she's attached. Hannah asked why Isabelle's bear was so old, and it was easy to explain and yet somehow not so easy.
