Being a Five Year Old

“Play is the highest form of research”

--Albert Einstein

 Now that we have plodded through a couple of phases of COVID re-openings, fifty-seven days of June, and a dozen or so senior parades, and socially distant graduations, it’s a proper summer.  Family corn hole games on the lawn, beach buckets, and BBQs are back again. As the pandemic progresses, every week brings some new item that's in short supply and high demand. Toilet paper, jigsaw puzzles, home gym equipment and so much else. Right now, kiddy pools are sold out almost everywhere. At my house, the TP is all stocked up, puzzles are lined up for the next bunch of rainy days, and I find myself turning to toys. Little kid toys. It’s like I’m five years old again.

Mr. Potato Head, Play-Doh, and Matchbox cars have all made an appearance in the last few weeks. The other night, when two friends came over for some backyard distantly social snacks, we pulled out craft kits and made plastic mermaid sun catchers, with stained glass gel paints.

Perhaps one good thing that could come from this pandemic is the return to the fun parts of our younger years. When my high school senior lost her last season of track, her senior awards night, her prom, and her job, refuge was found in coloring books and board games. Most people I know with Class of 2020 kids have said that watching them lose so many milestones, brought back their own memories of sweating it out on a football field in a polyester cap and gown, staying out until dawn on prom night, and having that last team dinner. I got to experience all of those events, but my daughter didn’t, and that is a real loss. When I graduated, the world was my oyster. I had college to look forward to, new people, travel, and so much more. I was going places. The Class of 2020? Quarantine and Zoom classes. Face masks and empty classrooms. Canceled plans and almost constant worry that their world will never be the same.  Is it any wonder that turning to the playthings of childhood would be a comfort?

Playtime doesn’t keep anyone safe, it usually doesn’t bring in a paycheck, but sometimes you just have to head for the toy box. Think about it. If you’re five years old, and the world isn’t teetering on its axis, one chest x-ray away from a corona-pocalypse, what makes you happy? Toys and food, most likely. Scraped a knee? Have a Freeze Pop. Having a bad day? Go play dollies and racecars. I’m way older than five, and confession time: I built a pug out of Legos this week and spent a few happy hours playing with Silly Sand. Also, they still make Super Elastic Bubble Plastic, in the tubes with the little straws. It still burns your lungs out, and it’s still wicked fun.

When my kids were little, I was the terrible mother that hated crafts. I never wanted to do activities with a whole bunch of little pieces that needed to be assembled. Paper chains, pipe cleaner caterpillars, and paint by number kits were all necessary evils, stashed away for snow days. When there was a five-year-old at my kitchen table, it was about fighting off the spread of glitter glue and crushed Oreos. These days it’s all about fighting off dread, fear, an invisible and insidious virus, a few creditors, and an Internet full of lies, damn lies, and statistics that I should shut off, but never quite manage to do. Maybe there is something to be said for putting away the adult worries, the job hunting, the Netflix binges, and sitting down to play with something.

Then I found it, this week’s little bit of happy fun time. I was in Marshall’s, a place I hadn’t been since February. Finally, I could return the blouse that didn’t go with the jeans that are now a wee bit too tight. On a clearance shelf was a tiny plastic space ship, a small bit of fake grass, and a magnetic cow. When you press on the little alien inside the UFO, the lights blink, the toy whistles, and then you wave it over the cow until the magnet activates and sucks Elsie right up. It even lets out a long “Mooooo” as she is whisked off to outer space. Does it get any better than that? I giggled like, well, a five-year-old with a fresh tube of glitter glue.

I have no answers about COVID-19. I cannot solve the racial issues that are everywhere, and just as illness-inducing as the virus. I can’t holler anymore at the news on TV; I’m going to barf up a vocal cord. What I can do, however, is take the time to pick up a stupid toy now and then and do some serious playing around. It won’t solve any of the big issues, but it will provide a few light moments. We all need more of those. Stay safe and play nice, OK?

Carry Your Childhood With You

“If you carry your childhood with you, you never become old.”

---Tom Stoppard

People say that “old” is a relative term. I’m not sure about that. Just this morning, I was rooting through my fridge to get some leftovers to bring for lunch. A couple of days ago, there was a nice chicken leg in a covered dish, with some garlic broccoli rabe, and it would make an excellent lunch, right? Not so much. When I took the cover off, all that remained was a fossilized piece of congealed meat with something that looked like it might have once been a vegetable. Or a lab experiment. Clearly, I need to start putting labels on the leftovers, because there was no doubt that this food was old. Super old, like give-you-food-poisoning old. It’s a good thing that people don’t age the way leftovers do, cold and alone, slowly becoming unrecognizable. Wait...omg...that actually happens sometimes. OK, I'll work on that next

 I’m 55 as of last week. Somehow between running around in my yard as a kid, skipping through high school summers on my beach, going to college, getting a job, and having kids of my own, more than half a century has passed. Does that mean I’m old? Who knows? I remember a woman I worked for in my first “grown-up” job. I was an investigator for the Department of Labor, working on cases of racketeering, embezzlement, fraud. At one point, I was the youngest person in my job in the country. Joan, who became a dear friend and mentor, celebrated her “speed limit” birthday one year at an office lunch party. I remember thinking how amazing she was. Her career was legendary among the rest of us new agents; there wasn’t anything she either didn’t know or couldn’t find out. Now I’m the same age Joan was then, but why do I still feel like a kid? Maybe it’s immaturity, and I just need to grow up?

Nah. It’s not that. Joan used to say all the time that it’s not the number of years you’ve been around; it’s what you do with them. One thing that hasn’t happened for me is giving up certain pieces of my childhood. Who would do that? On my bed sits a very worn-out stuffed dog. His name is Quincy because I got him at a toy store in Quincy Market when I was ten. I don’t go to sleep without him. Quincy was standing by when I had my kids, when I had my hip replaced, and when I had cancer. He’s been through it all with me. Talk about looking your age? That poor pup is showing his age. An overzealous pug got at him once, and I had to stitch him back up. The pug was banished to her crate, and Quincy recovered. He no longer has eyes, and his fur isn’t white anymore, it’s a faded dingy dishwater color, but he’s still here.

Maybe it’s silly to be so attached to a piece of cloth, but I don’t care, and it’s not just me. Asking around among my friends, it turns out that many of them have a “woobie.” Seriously, almost everyone has something stashed away from childhood. A favorite blanket, a stuffed animal, a doll, or that last Matchbox car they can’t throw away. Considering how crazy our world is getting, is it so wrong to hold on to something meaningful from a time when our biggest worry was getting the good swing at recess?

There are days when it’s so tempting to tuck Quincy under my arm and bring him everywhere. I can’t be the only one who could use a little furry friend during a stressful meeting or a challenging day, right? When I see toddlers in the supermarket, wearing footy pajamas and carrying a teddy bear, I am downright envious. I want to high five them and say, “You are living your best life, you go!” Jammies and Quincy might not go over well at a staff meeting or an interview, though, and people probably would stare at me and think, “She’s off her head for sure, she’s carrying around a stuffed dog.” Also, I have a terrible habit of losing things, so if Quincy ever got misplaced or, God forbid, left behind, I’d be devastated.

We should never have to put away anything that brings back good memories and provides comfort. Yes, I’m 55, and I have a stuffed animal I can’t sleep without, so what? You can have my Quincy dog when you pry it from my cold, dead hand. Until then, he’s with me.

Don't Forget Where You Live

“Don’t forget where you live.”

---F. L. Kelley, Sr.

My father would say this every time one of us walked out the door. He wasn’t really concerned that we’d forget our address or not be able to find our street; it was more than that. I know where I live, and, lucky for me, it’s the same house I've been remembering for years. The same room where my father sat, watching the game and reading the paper, is where I sit if I have to wait up for a child. Our side yard, where my friends would pull up and honk is now where my own kids wait for a ride, or, in the case of the boys, park their cars when they visit. The car horns and slamming screen doors echo through years of Friday night dates; Neck runs, prom dates and playmates trying to round up enough people for kickball.

An address on a driver’s license isn’t what my father meant when he warned us against forgetting where we live. And it’s not as simple as “where you live is who you are.”  It’s about the place you’ve chosen to call your home. Fair warning, it’s a little bit of a philosophical rabbit hole, something my father was known for getting lost in, but it came to mind recently when there was a discussion on being a “True 'Header.” In its most basic meaning, a “True ‘Header” is someone who was born in Marblehead. Usually, this means the old Mary Alley hospital which doesn’t exist anymore, so in one way, a true ‘Header is quite rare. Sure, now and then a wee one gets born at home, here in town, and that’s pretty amazing, but overall, where you happen to slide into the world, slippery and screaming, isn’t always where you are “from.” In a town like ours, with so much history, so many significant world events that began here, and so much pride, I can understand the importance some place on being a true ‘Header. To a point, that is.

Eventually, though, it must be asked, “Does everyone who lives here now, but  who came from somewhere else have to be identified as such?” How long does one have to live in a place to say, for instance, “I’m from Marblehead?”  I was eight years old when I moved here. It’s been 46 years, and other than a brief time in college, this has been where I call home. What is the proper response when someone asks me, “Where ya’ll from?” For the record, the “ya’ll” is legit, it seems the only people who ask that are from the southern part of the United States; they’re just extra sweet and friendly like that. Vermont holds a special place in my heart, because when I lived there, for school, it became my home, in ways that are not defined by a zip code. I’m not from there though.

Before we moved to Marblehead, my family went all the way back in Nahant to when the boat from County Cork docked. The best stories my parents told growing up happened over in Nahant, like the time my father “borrowed” a police car for a joy ride or the time my mother rode her bike down the church steps. They were from there. I don’t think I am though. Their parents? They were from Ballydehob and Clonakilty. And so it goes; the concept of where we are from becomes a debate, or, sadly, something that causes yet another division between separate groups.

Our country is incredibly divided right now; I’m pretty sure everyone would agree on at least that. Regardless of what label you carry, be it political, racial, geographical or financial, the fact remains that like a Venn diagram, there are lots of areas that overlap. There is someone in town whose ancestry goes back to the same village in Ireland where two of my grandparents lived. So, are we “from” the same place? He’s lived here his whole life, born right in town. He’s a ‘True Header” by definition, but I am not, so I guess that’s a no. Seems very strange to me though, there must be something I am missing. I love telling people about my hometown. It’s the birthplace of the American Navy; our founding fathers were regulars at taverns and historic homes. There’s an ocean that on rare days I can hear from my driveway. There are beautiful beaches, great people, and fresh lobster.  When my father said “don’t forget where you live, he didn’t mean Marblehead or even Nahant. He meant where we are rooted, and where those we claim as our own, wait for us, care for us, and welcome us back.

My children are still finding their way into their adult lives, so who knows what they might say when someone asks, “Where are you from?” I do want them to remember where they live though, always. We should all remember who our people are, regardless of what a map might say. I live here. This is my home, because of who my people are. Call it whatever you like, I won’t forget.