Times Have Changed

It’s been almost a year, and I still can’t believe she’s gone. We knew it was coming, but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with when it happens. Almost everything is settled; the will was probated, her clothing and kitchen items have been donated, there’s a truck coming to pick up the few furnishings that are left, and the house just went under contract a few days ago. It’s time to clean out the few things that are left and throw them in the trash before the new owners close and move in. I look around the bedroom and sigh. Every time I put something in the garbage, it’s like she’s dying all over again. These were her things, the things that were important to her, and now that the rest of the family has taken the trinkets that they want, all that’s left is the worthless stuff. The part of her life that no one wants or cares about.

I sit on the edge of the bed and look around the room. The patchwork bedspread is long gone, now it’s just the mattress that she slept on for all but the last few weeks of her adult life, and the company picking up the donated furniture doesn’t want it, so I’ll have to find a way to dispose of it. There’s a dull spot on the hardwood floor where the rug was, the rug that was the first thing that greeted her feet every morning, and the last thing to say goodnight every evening. I…I take a deep breath and stand. Sitting around pining about it won’t get me anywhere, and I have to get this done. I’ll start here in her bedroom.

There were a few things in the top of the closet that needed to go, so I open the glossy wood door and start pulling the boxes down. The second brown cardboard box sounds funny, it makes a clanking sound when I put it on the bed, and I pick it up and shake it. Clank, clank, clank. I return to the closet and take down the third box, which doesn’t make any sound, but my attention is still on that second box. It sounds so familiar, but I can’t place it. I really don’t have time to look through all this stuff, but as I pull more boxes and blankets from the top shelf of the closet, my mind keeps going back to that dusty, familiar sounding box sitting on the mattress. Finally, the shelf is empty, and I use an old dishrag to wipe the dust.

Something nags at me, annoying me like a buzzing gnat on the outskirts of my mental reach. I sit on the edge of the bed and pick up the second box and blow the dust off the top.

‘Achoo!’ That was a big mistake, and now my allergies are going to shift into overdrive after a nose full of that dust. I put the box down, pull out my handkerchief from my pants pocket, blow my nose, and then tuck it into my shirt pocket. If this is any indication, I am going to need my hankie close at hand today.

I lift the box and set it on my leg, then begin to lift the lid. The contents clank again as the box shifts, and I suddenly know what is inside before I even see the contents.

The Christmas of 1969 was a turning point for our family. Dad had finally gotten a stable job with the railroad earning decent money, and mom was able to get us kids some real toys to open on Christmas morning. The only drawback was that dad was at the bottom of the seniority list, and he was always working holidays so the senior employees could take the time off. But he promised it would only be for a few years until he had enough seniority to pull rank at the holidays. He didn’t know that he wouldn’t live long enough to fulfill that promise.

I was only old enough to remember two of the prior six Christmas mornings, but I remembered that we didn’t get much. I have a vivid image of seeing the pain in her face each time we went to the tree and only had one present each. She never knew how important each of those presents were, but despite that, us kids were just happy to be there with her and him. As a kid we never understood how much they grieved over just scraping by, or how proud they were when dad got the new job.

But this year, each of us had five gifts each under the tree! The pile of presents left by Santa seemed enormous. She sat cross-legged next to the tree, her knees poking out from under her robe on Christmas morning, and we all sat in a row next to her, fidgeting like a deer in a room full of cheetahs. She pulled a present from under the tree and looked at the tag. Dang! It was for my brother, and she snaked her arm around me and handed it to him. She pulled a second present from the tree, looked at the tag, and again passed it by me to my sister. Was I going to be left out? I couldn’t believe that I didn’t have a present in my hands yet! I was itching to get ahold of my gifts and start ripping that colorful paper off them. She took the third gift, looked at it, and…

It was mine! I snatched it away, ignoring the slight scowl that crossed her face. As I shredded the wrapping, I heard the contents gently clanking together. I pulled the striped box out of the remnants of the wrapping paper and looked at it for a moment. ‘Dinky Toys Gift Set No. 4’. I quickly removed the cover and the five race cars inside seemed to magically glow from the lights of the Christmas tree. I plucked the first racer from the box, the red number eight, and held it in front of my face. The rest of the room seemed to fade away as I touched one of the gray tires and gently gave it a spin. The figure behind the wheel wore a glossy white racing suit, the gray goggles covering his eyes stared straight ahead at the imaginary race track that had appeared in my mind, and I could feel the wind on my face as I raced down the track.  I felt the steering wheel in my own hands as I looked at the figure’s hands clenching the tiny steering wheel of red racer number eight. I could hear the sound of the engine as it roared past the finish line, the checkered flag flapping as the crowd screamed their approval.

The room suddenly rematerialized around me as a dog barked in the distance. I looked at the Dinky Toys Gift Set No. 4 box, now yellowed with age, a brown water stain covering a large portion of the top and one side. She had saved my entire collection of Dinky Toys; the Hornby Train Set, the Pullmore car transporter with four cars, the Lincoln Continental still in the original display case, the urban accessory kit, and even my 370 dragster with the Speedwheels launcher accessory. Some had been Christmas gifts, and others had been acquired by me in various trades with school friends. When I left home, I was too old for them, and I remember telling her to just throw them away or give them to some kid. I can’t believe she actually kept them all these years.

It has started to snow by the time I make it home, and the wind catches the door and almost tears it from my grip as I go inside the house. The kitchen is warm and cozy, my wife is standing at the stove stirring a large steaming pot of something that smells absolutely heavenly, and my son is at the table, his thumbs furiously tapping a text message to someone. The box of Dinky Toys, my Dinky Toys, is tucked under my arm, now missing the coating of dust.

My wife turns and smiles at me. “What’s that?”

I grin at her. “Oh, you’re not going to believe this.” I turn and look at my son as I place the box on the table. “Put that down for a minute.”

His face can't hide the frown as he puts his phone down in front of him where he can keep an eye on the screen. Then he sighs and rolls his eyes in my direction.

I remove the lid and pull out the Dinky Toys Gift Box Set No 4, place it on the table, and pull the lid off. “Can you believe I found these? I had them when I was a kid, and she must have saved them all these years!”

My son cranes his neck to look at the racers. Even though they were faded and worn, in my mind they still glowed with that Christmas light from so many years ago.

He picks up the red racer number eight and turns it over in his hand. He gives the gray tire a spin, the same tire that I did so many years ago at Christmas, then touches the head of the figure, the white racing suit now faded to yellow.

I look at my wife, who has turned from the stove and is watching. “Can you believe it?”

My wife smiles at me, then turns back to the stove.

“Yeah, nice dad.” My son puts the racer back in the box and grabs his phone again, his thumbs once more working furiously on the tiny keyboard. 

I feel my heart sink as I realize that times have changed, and I feel that little boy inside fade away forever.