Robotic Fixation 0488

Robotic Fixation 0488 by mliu92
Robotic Fixation 0488, a photo by mliu92 on Flickr.

Dear J-

So a couple of years ago we got yet another package from my parents, this time full of stuff they didn’t want to move around any more so we took it a bit grudgingly. After they moved out of what I regarded as the ancestral home (it was where I was brought home after birth) we couldn’t find anything substantive — I’m still missing a few of my annuals and the pictures from prom, come to think of it, but if they were that important to me I should have saved them on my own — and here we were getting hand-me-down stuff.

Junk, that is.

Except this time I opened up the box and lo, there were the treasure boxes I’d kept — tins full of little toys and knick-knacks that I’d collected over the years growing up; trash, really, scavenged from the ground because it was shiny (Molson bottlecap, anyone?) or metal (half an antenna whip). And then there were the robots, wind-up Tomy toys that we’d gotten out of vending machines, mostly, or acquired somewhere along the way, like this long-armed gentleman who, when the spring was new and the spirit strong, was able to push himself back up from falling over, a trick that never failed to amuse me and jolly me out of whatever bad mood I found myself in at the time. In fact if I remember right I got him because I was pitching a fit over something or another and the next thing I knew I was laughing at the tricks he could pull.

figgy is learning to read — slowly, but learning — and we can’t seem to understand why she wouldn’t be motivated to unlock that last part of communicating with the world, but I suppose after hours of school, then swim lessons, and with lots of distractions around there’s no reason to push into the world of books like there was growing up — but I wonder how we’ll coax her out of the bad moods and foul storms that have brewed up the past few weeks.

The robot is tired now, overwound and dumped in amongst other toys instead of holding a place of pride on the dresser, wound to amuse my kids now. Times are different.



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