Last night Jer brought me a box of stuff. Books I had written in elementary school. “The Mysterious Furious Hill” is a real scream. Badges I’d earned that hadn’t made it on to my Girl Scout sash. A report card from the second grade. A picture of my preschool class at Prince of Peace, circa 1979-80. I held that photograph in my hand and I could feel these plastic egg shaped puzzle toys. I could remember Mrs. Fish at my house. She let me “fish” out my name tag with a fishing pole. A magnet, a stick, a string and a safety pin on a name tag. And thirty-one years later, I remember.
How do I remember this stuff? We had a wooden iron in the “playing house/kitchen” area in preschool. I know this because I saw a shelf with a row of fingerpaint in yellow and green containers (the Crayola finger paint containers are the same as they were circa 1980) and in the same moment I saw a wooden iron at Em’s preschool, and I could remember it. As clearly as if it was happening right now. I knew exactly what it would feel like to touch that iron. Continue reading