Prattle Inc.: Don't "Go Joe!"

For almost a solid year he wore that pair of faux fur lined, navy blue, rubber snow boots everyday. That first winter they served their intended purpose and protected his little feet from the frosty elements. Come Spring, we reasoned at his protest against any other form of sneaker, shoe or boot, they kept his feet dry. He called them his fire boots or his army boots. He played in them, napped in them and wore them to preschool and story time at the library.

By Summer the fur was a matted dingy gray, the metal grommets that held the laces to gather and tighten at the calf had fallen off and the waterproof fabric on the upper part was torn in many places. They smelled so rank that no amount of overnight machine washing, only after he was sleeping could we pry them off his feet, would remove the stench. He still wore them everyday with shorts and no shirt when it was 95 degrees outside with 80% humidity. At the age of 3 and 4 a child grows so quickly that no pair of shoes lasts very long and by the time I had to secretly dispose of the "fire boots", blaming the trashman for taking them when I had left them outside to dry, they were two sizes too small. Sadly, we have no evidence of that famous part of my son's childhood other than the retold story and a photo or two.

Jobie's childhood passions consisted of legos, "army men" (G.I. Joes), matchbox cars and anything firefighter related. With legos he was never really interested in the sci-fi sets, his favorite things to build were real life action vehicles - police cars, ambulances and fire trucks. Tee was pretty into legos too, and ofttimes the brothers could come close to bloodshed over a single minuscule lego emergency light. In fact, to this very second I have one of the little round legos on my dresser mixed in with my jewelery. I used to keep a stash of two or three for when the bickering got too intense, these puppies were pure gold around here then. Now the toy blue "siren light" is nothing but dusty sentiment that makes me smile every time I rifle through my earrings and it appears.

Needless to say, there is a very large plastic container in our attic that is filled to the brim with legos. I don't know, maybe I'm saving them for my grandchildren. Or maybe I just can't let go because those little plastic bricks cost a damn fortune and I personally invested the equivalent of three year's salary on their purchase over the span of two boys' childhood. Whatever the reason, I plan on keeping them forever.

G.I. Joes were also a very big deal to Jobie. Many a Christmas Eve night I was still out hunting down that specific Joe that would bring the squeal of excitement that only that special want, the heart's desire gift, his version of the Red Rider BB Gun, could elicit on Christmas morning.Tee was never as enthusiastic as Jobie about G.I. Joes, but often they'd hole up in their room acting out elaborate scenarios, playing together for hours. Jobie would haul the Joes outside for "jungle missions" and a few ended up decapitated by the lawn mower, or were found half buried in dirt piles. Eventually, the collection became quite extensive and it took a 14 gallon plastic storage container to hold them and their 8 frillion weapons and accessories. (Which by the way, I have always thought was part of the appeal since I was adamantly opposed to toy weapons. Inch long G.I. Joe guns and knives were as good as it got for them.)

Although legos and fire boots were outgrown sooner, the Joes had a much longer lifespan. Jobie has been too old to play with toys for quite awhile, but even through the 9th or 10th grade he would occasionally pull them out of the closet and just look them over or line them up. Only about a year ago did I finally clean, organize and sort the dolls (if I may be so bold - the boys always hated it when I called them that) to store away.

Today Jobie came over and said that he needed to go up into the attic. He brought the box of Joes down. I caught him at the door. He's been unemployed for weeks now and thusly has no cash. He'd negotiated a sale for the entire box. I emotively begged him, then ordered him not to sell them. He belligerently replied "They're mine," and stomped out of the door.

After the past 6 years with the bipolar, the resulting substance abuse, bad choices and all of the other shit, sometimes my mind goes back to before all of that - to my little boy.

He's wrong about that box being "his". My memories were in there, too.