With youngest in tow I browsed through this person’s belongings. Old magazines, a collection of handsaws, countless knick-knicks, a wooden toilet seat: it felt downright voyeuristic. Sarah was interested in a dusty ceramic puppy, but what caught my eye was a wooden Pinocchio doll.
I’ve browsed through many yard sales and thrift shops, but I don’t have any experience judging wooden toys or folk art. Whether it was valuable or not didn’t enter the equation. But this piece spoke to me. It reminded me of simpler times. It reminded me of the toys made by the grandfather of childhood friends.
“Grandpa” (as we all called him) made popsicles in the summer (ice cube trays of koolaid with toothpicks stuck in them) and distributed them freely to all the neighborhood children. He also made wonderful wooden toys ? a scale model of a gas station for his grandson, doll houses for his granddaughters. And the piece de resistance, a clubhouse in the backyard.
Now that I’m old enough to appreciate how much time and effort it takes to make a gift by hand I feel a little differently about all of it. I realize how special these things are. And when we’re given a toy, hat or scarf or a poncho that’s handmade for the girls I am always bowled over. These are the best gifts.
The Pinocchio before me had hand that were very roughly hewn. They looked almost like shovels with thumbs. The feet were simple and rounded. The only working joint was in the left arm.
I loved it. But since I didn’t have any money with me that first day I left it there.
The next day I drove by again. I was on my way to the store. Feeling a little hopeful I pulled over. At first he wasn’t to be seen, but a second look located him quickly enough. The sticker on his forehead was clearly marked: $10.
I didn’t have much cash on me. I could have scrounged up more money before I left the house. There were plenty of quarters in the jar. The fiver represented the only paper money. A loonie stood alone among the silver.
I had six bucks. Total.
I wondered if the proprietor would accept my offering. I held up the Pinocchio.
“Will you take six?”
“Eight.”
“But it’s all I have? “
Perhaps I looked like a lovestruck of kind of gal who deserved some pity. Perhaps he remembered my daughter and I poking around the previous day. It’s more likely he just wanted to clear everything out. Regardless of the reason, it was mine. He scowled a little, looked away, and grumbled a grumbly “okay.”
When I got home I peeked under Pinocchio’s clothing. The clothes were machine sewn and fairly new-looking. They didn’t look like they belonged. Much to my surprise he wasn’t naked underneath. He sports a painted shirt and what might be lederhosen.
I can’t help but wonder about the history of this little fellow. There are no markings. The hands are so primitive-looking. Where did he come from?
The history of the Pinocchio is forever lost, and it makes me a little sad. Who made it? Was it someone’s toy? How did he end up lying on a folding table surrounded by junky odds and ends? How is it that no one wants him anymore? It makes me want to write histories for all of our own things.
He reminds me of what it means to be a parent? all that planning and hard work, the outpouring of labour and love that goes into that little project you call your own. Is it appreciated? It should be, but the reality is that sometimes it is not appreciated. But it is lovely just the same.
