Sandy Supposes....

What Did You Collect When You Were A Child?

Bard's Hall # 6

         I noticed the following intriguing question posted on Facebook. What did you collect when you were a child? The responses were illuminating and amusing.

         My British born and raised step-mother-in-law Mary, replied,"Empty scent bottles. I loved the shape and smell of them."

         This shook lose memories of my Mom and her career as an Avon lady. Sure, she received hundreds of perfume bottles for her customers. Of course, I'd been warned not to open every one just to have a sniff. I admit to ignoring this a few times. I could not resist. All the scents mingled and perfumed the air. Um, I do not believe I sneezed into any of those containers.

         Avon marketed their scents in fancy glass bottles that became collector items for some avid fans. Several were shaped into figurines. Some were beautiful, sparkling glass bells, dinner bells. I picture the lady of the manor raising it with her dainty hand, shaking it and commanding,"Oh Jeeves, did you not hear my summons and why on earth is there a sudden scent of perfume in the air? Jeeves?" I vaguely recall a kitten one. Even the men's colognes sported fancy bottles. Were they irresistible fish, baseball gloves, motorcycles? Hmmm, I cannot remember.

         One macabre woman responded to the online prompt with this. "Tears from my little brother." Really? Is she kidding? Did she antagonize her victim sibling? Could he have been a sensitive child? Was she a bully? Did she live to torture him?

         I'm the eldest of four, a boy and three girls. I will admit that when the three oldest of us tired of the baby we united to rid ourselves of her. All we had to do was utter a protest of some kind, something that would register to Mom's ears located elsewhere. It only had to be simple, direct. "Sherry, stop it!" "Sherry don't do that!" "Sherry, not again!" Mom was predictable. She'd holler for Sherry and then we were free. Were there tears? No, not from us...

         One poster claimed to collect bruises as a child. I did, too, but it wasn't by choice. Bruises just materialized on me. I also collected stubbed toes, fractures, blisters, scars, whatever. They are battle wounds. Remnants of misadventures, miscalculations, missteps and okay, misbehaviour.

         My mother regaled me with tales of her childhood as the eldest of five. Her nightly ritual, job had her emptying her sister Janine's pockets before bedtime. Mom remembered cringing and taking a deep breath. She never knew what she'd discover and then be forced to dispose of without alerting Janine. There could be one or a few worms, dead, or still wriggling. Pebbles could be nestled amongst chewed, sticky gum. Spiders might crawl out of captivity. Sharp nails could be waiting to stab someone. Yuck!

         I remember objecting if a sibling dared to request the same wondrous prize from a cereal box that I fancied. The math never did add up, one box, four kids. The odds improved when and if we each had our own box of Cracker Jacks, a caramel popcorn. There's nothing like eating your way through the treat in anticipation of a hidden reward.

         My maternal grandparents and my parents purchased Red Rose tea which stuffed lovely, tiny ceramic figurines in the boxes. It always produced a surprise. Maybe it would be a cat, or a dog, or a fish, or a horse, or wee children. Nanny lined all of them up along her kitchen window sill. When young, we rearranged them and played with them.

         I recall collecting empty, glass pop/soda bottles from the street or parks. Returning them to the store meant earning spending money for candy, or another pop. What an ingenious recycling plan! Exploit children to clean up with instant gratification.

         I suppose I collected and still collect precious memories.