I have very, very few mementos of my early childhood. VERY few. When my mother passed away and I went to live with my grandmother, my sister (then 18) moved into my mother’s home. She lived a lifestyle that was, shall we say, less than gentle on my mother’s possessions. And, too, she was a teenager, with a teen’s lack of respect or care for preserving family mementos. Then, there was a fire that destroyed much of what should have been cherished. My sister salvaged some, and my grandmother had some. Now some is just kind of scattered around Grandma’s house, now inhabited by my Uncle Fred and his girlfriend Simone.
My mother enjoyed “doing” ceramics. She was all about those ceramic rooster statues and wall hangings that were all the rage back in the 70’s (like these – not mine, photo courtesy of Flickr Creative Commons). She also loved to make ceramic frogs, like the one I wrote about previously, and this little guy pictured above.
The sponge frog lived under my mother’s sink, and held brillo pads and scrubby things. I remember it starkly, clearly, vividly – a background detail of my childhood that never really jumped to the forefront of my mind until I saw this little guy under the sink at Grandma’s house, back when Bill and I stayed there in July (hmm, I have yet to write that installment of the Maine Saga).
I kind of squee’d, “Hey, I remember that frog!” Simone leaned over my shoulder to see where I was pointing, and said, “Oh, yes, that was your mother’s, would you like to take it home with you?”
UM. YES PLEASE.
So, now he lives on TOP of my sink, holding my kitchen sponge. I look at that little froggy and I think, what a strange thing life is. My mom made him in Maine in the 70’s, he lived under her sink for years, he survived a fire AND my sister, wound up at my Grandmother’s somehow, lived under HER sink for years, and now he’s in Arizona. Fulfilling his froggy duty as a fixture on MY sink.
I don’t know. He just makes me happy.