Doctors, Blankets, Davenports, Monkeys, and Rocking Horses

Age 2

It's in our nature to become attached to things. I believe my attachments began just moments after grumpy-old Doc Walsh spanked my newborn butt and handed me over to my darling mother, Nell. However, I read that obstetricians don't do that, anymore. Probably something to do with malpractice insurance or child abuse. I wouldn't be surprised if PETA wasn't somehow involved.

Doc Walsh was a one-size-fits-all kind of physician, practicing in a small town in northern, Illinois. I can still smell the pungent odor of the stubby cigar he smoked in his basement office downtown. Those were the days. Actually, I can still see the little white hat perched atop his nurse's head, too. I focused on it to avoid watching her jab those pencil-size needles into the soft tissue of my upper arm. Fortunately, I've found that needles appear to get smaller with age -- my age. He remained my doctor for at least the first 10 years of my life. That's why I can remember him and his nurse so vividly.

It was 20 miles to the nearest hospital, which was located near the hometown of former President Ronald Reagan. That's neither here not there, but I thought I'd mention it, anyway. I had a lot of relatives, from both sides of the family, living in that same small town, but I never got to know them that well. We moved to the big city after my dad got a job there as a salesman for Frito-Lay. He was one of the very first. He retired after 31 years, having never missed a day of work.

Anyway, back to my memoir. I've never even thought about writing a memoir before. It's kind of fun.

I had a favorite blanket. I'll bet you did, too. Mine was green, and sort of fuzzy, with a ribbon-smooth border sewn onto both ends. I liked the way it felt on my face and I often rubbed the ribbon-like border between my fingers and thumbs. It was comforting. It was definitely an attachment, but it never left the house.

I also became attached to an old davenport, which is what we called our couch. It also had little pieces of ribbon-like fabric woven into it that was comforting to the touch. Coincidence? The worst day of my toddling years, was the day I had to watch the furniture-delivery guys carry "my" davenport down the stairs and out to the curb for the garbage men to take. I must have sat near the front window looking down at it for hours, crying over the devastating loss. I don't remember anything about its replacement.

Everybody seems to have grown up with an adorable teddy bear. Not me. I had a full-size monkey. Not a real one. It was stuffed. But, his face, ears, and hands were made of molded plastic. I never gave him a name, but he could do everything a teddy bear could do. I'm waiting for Ben Affleck to star in a movie with a talking one. Matt Damon already did two with a teddy bear. I thought they were hilarious. Come to think of it, neither of my kids had teddy bears, either. They had Puffalumps. My daughter's was a pink bunny and my sons was blue bunny. I'm very traditional. We had to take those damn things everywhere. It's a good thing you could throw them into the washer and dryer without fear of knocking the stuffing out of them.

But the one thing I was really, really attached to, was a large, plastic rocking horse. Those were the days of Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, and, of course, Trigger. Trigger was Roy's horse. I must have asked for a new cowboy hat, boots and pistol belt for every birthday and Christmas for five years running. My faithful steed was blonde with a black mane and tail. The saddle was red. It stood on a black metal frame with silver springs. I rode the hell out of that horse, chasing bank robbers and bands of hostile Indians. It was a few years before I learned how badly we treated our native Americans, but, hey, I was an innocent little boy at the time. 

I never gave my horse a name, either. Another coincidence? Nonetheless, he remains stabled in my parent's basement. His tail broke off because the plastic dried out and deteriorated over the years. It's been more than 55 years since I rode him into the sunset for the last time. He's probably been very lonely. I'm starting to feel sorry for him. My kids never took a liking to him. Neither did my grandson. He didn't seem to mind. He never puts up a fuss.