Tonight at dinner we were reminiscing about the 70s. Why? I have no idea. For the life of me I can't figure out how our conversation digressed to that period of history. My only positive connection to that era is that I was born in it and had to play with the toys available to me at the time. And yellow was the decade's favorite color (apparently avocado green as well).
I was telling the children of my very favorite show: Buck Rogers. I had never seen Star Wars and had no idea it was a copycat of that show. I remember being outside playing with my friends but when it was time for Wonder Woman and Buck Rogers shows on TV, I would sprint home and sit in front of our fuzzy, rabbit-eared tv that only had 3 channels with eager anticipation. I even had Wonder Woman underroos. If they had Buck Rogers underroos for girls, I so would have had those too.
Then I got to thinking about my Holly Hobbie oven. I remember sitting in my room stirring a packet of mix and water with a little plastic spoon into a teeny, tiny pan and shoving it in my "oven" so that the mixture could cook from the heat of a light bulb.
This brings up a multitude of questions. First of all, why in the world would my parents allow me to have an oven in my room? Second, how can anything legally be cooked using a light bulb? Why was this my introduction to cooking? I was doomed to failure from the start. No wonder it is so hard for me now-a-days - I began this whole cooking adventure using miniature kitchen tools, in my room, with an electric oven that "cooked" food (cakes and pizzas) using a 60 watt bulb. Whose genius idea was this? Everybody knows real cooks cook with gas.
My failure as a home cook can be traced back to this lame "oven". I remember thinking even at the tender age of 6 and 7 that this couldn't possibly work. It just didn't seem right to me. I was infinitely more interested in my Barbie townhouse.
No, this isn't a picture of me, but it may as well have been. I spent so much time with this amazing toy honing my inner interior designer. My Bapchie even crocheted rugs for every room in the townhouse for me. I decorated it to the 9s. The only down side was that when my brother (4 years younger than me) played with me and insisted on using his Tonka Truck men, it was a little embarrassing. That's cuz those guys were like 3 inches shorter than Barbie. Granted, he willingly spoke the narrative I explicitly told him to say word for word so the relational interactions would make sense, but it was just awkward with the height difference.
I spent most of my time outside, however, playing until the sun went down. When I wasn't riding my bigwheel, I was roller skating right down the middle of the street, or jumping off of swings, or making floorplans of houses with grass clippings, or laying in the grass watching the clouds roll by, or playing school in my friend's basement, or playing at the park. None of this happened with a single parent around. A ragady group of kids would just roam the neighborhood. Everybody's mom was your mom. You could get in trouble with any of them and they would spank you too! Everybody's mom could also kiss your boo-boos and adhere necessary band-aids. Everybody's mom would also feed you and tell you to put your coat on so you don't catch a cold.
It's funny the few memories that actually stick from childhood. I wonder what my kids will remember from their childhoods? I'm sure it will be different from my memories, but that's the beauty of it. We all see the same things from different perspectives. This makes the world a more beautiful place. It rounds out all of our memories for the better.
