The Raccoons Who Stole the Bread

Despite the fact that we have never been what you might call “outdoorsy”, we have been coerced on more than one occasion in our life to take advantage of the wondrous nature that is found in our home province and go camping, usually for school. The annual grade 5/6 camping trip to Sandbanks Provincial Park was our first such foray into nature where we were told constantly for three irritating, mosquito-filled days that we were having such FUN.

It was on this first (and only – the following year our big class trip was to Quebec City where we got to stay in a hotel, thank god) trip to Sandbanks that we learned what has since proven to be a patently false trick for curing mosquito bites of their itch (that one where you cut into the bite with your fingernail, which only makes it hurt more). The girl who told us this was a camping enthusiast who had never gone on a family vacation that didn’t involve a tent, so we assumed she knew what she was talking about, even though we were dragged to Winnipeg every single summer where the mosquitos are the size of tomatoes, so really we should have known better than to listen to this girl, who also always sounded like she was stuffed up with a cold, and why we put our faith in someone who couldn’t even get herself an antihistamine is a mystery we will likely never solve.

In an case, after this field trip, we were all required to make some art or something about the experience to be bound for posterity into our “Sandbanks 1993” book. The only experience that wasn’t complete misery (aside from drinking hot chocolate every night) was the morning we woke up to adorable little paw prints in our peanut butter and a missing loaf of bread. (It was our last day, so this wasn’t a complete tragedy that would lead to starvation.) We were obviously inspired enough by the image of sweet little raccoons feasting on our favourite sandwich, while wearing a bib, naturally.

Monetary value: If the next Pixar movie has a bib-wearing raccoon eating a peanut butter sandwich, I am suing.

Nostalgic value: High. We still hate camping, but we do like raccoons.

Disposal status: Kept, in case Pixar tries to rip me off.

The Reason We Thought Peewee’s Head Was So Much Bigger (or, The Genuinely Disturbing Disembodied Howdy Doody Head)

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is the reason we thought our talking Peewee doll had a terrifyingly enormous head. Howdy Doody’s head was given to our dear father as a sort of gag gift. In addition to its visual terrors, Howdy Doody is also made out of some disconcerting type of foam, and to touch it really does feel like you are poking a souvenir from hell. It was promptly dispatched to the safety of some drawer or other and forgotten about – until we were in need of scissors or tape or markers or some such and accidentally came upon the frightening likeness suddenly and spent the next half-hour rocking in the corner.

This happened many times to us, and to each sister, and we each somehow fused in our minds Howdy Doody’s horrible foam head and Peewee Herman’s actually not-so-scary doll head and erroneously turned the talking Peewee doll into the most horrifying aspect of childhood while forgetting/blocking out the actual most horrifying aspect of childhood.

And so, mystery solved. Peewee redeemed. Howdy Doody condemned.

Monetary value: We would probably have to pay you to take this nightmare inducing piece of crap off our hands.

Nostalgia value: As if we weren’t already afraid of enough dumb shit when we were a kid.

Disposal status: As it technically belongs to our father, we left it to him to decide its fate. So far, it is still on his desk, deterring us from visiting his office. Perhaps that was his plan all along.

The Peewee Doll

There was a doll that we three sisters were so horrendously afraid of that we demanded it be gotten rid of, or at least hidden somewhere we couldn’t find it. (This was not an uncommon reaction to things that scared us: At four, we found the image of the witch in a picture book of Disney’s Snow White so repellent that we demanded our father remove it from the premises. He hid it in his office for over a decade.)

You might think that our fear stemmed from the inherent creepiness of Peewee Herman, but you would be wrong. Our family loved Peewee, especially our middle sister who made up an elaborate fantasy that Peewee was her 16-year-old brother (hers only, not ours – the logistics of genetics were unclear). While our dear mother drove us to our hated Hebrew school every Saturday morning, our beloved father stayed home and taped Peewee’s Playhouse for us to watch upon our return. (Our father was as enthusiastic a Peewee fan as any of us kids, and his impression of the Peewee laugh never failed to impress our friends, who were often not allowed to watch Peewee’s Playhouse due to uptight parents who scare too easily at flamboyantly gay heads in boxes and talking (or barking) chairs.

In any case, we loved Peewee and were very excited when our dad brought home from one of his sojourns out of town the highly anticipated talking Peewee doll. At first, excitement reigned – pulling his string resulted in an endlessly entertaining loop of “I know you are, but what am I?” and “Heh heh! I’m Peewee Herman!” and “When anyone says the secret word, scream real loud!” and whatever the hell else he said. But eventually (read: soon) our excessive string-pulling took its toll on poor talking Peewee and his voice box morphed into a terrifyingly deep, mechanical, slow-motion drawl. Clearly, the doll was possessed. The only thing to do was to yank out its string so it would never utter its palsied-sounding words again and demand that our parents get rid of it, or at least hide it in the basement where it couldn’t invade our nightmares.

Ladies and gentlemen, behold the doll that inspired such terror:

And so, when we finally dug him out of the basement last month, we were shocked at how…not terrifying he is. “Oh,” we thought, after bracing ourself for horror as we pulled him out of a bag. “Wasn’t he, or at least his head, much bigger? Weren’t his eyes significantly deader? Why, despite his dirty jacket, he’s actually pretty cute!”

And so we called our sisters downstairs to face our longstanding fear. “Oh,” said the baby sister. “THAT‘s the Peewee doll? I thought his head was so much bigger!”

Middle sister was similarly relieved as she picked up Peewee for a dusty hug. “He’s so cute! I thought his head was so much bigger.”

Tomorrow: find out why we thought his head was so much bigger.

Monetary value: Minimal. He’s kind of filthy and he can’t talk anymore. We aren’t a mint-in-the-box type of family.

Nostalgic value: Immense, and even greater since our sororal bonding session over our shared skewed view of the size of Peewee’s head.

Disposal status: We’re keeping this as proof that childhood fears can be overcome.

The Judy Garland Paper Dolls

Is it any wonder we grew up loving grandiose old-timey musicals? With amusements like these, we didn’t stand a chance. You already know about our Wizard of Oz obsession, so it’s no wonder that these classic Judy Garland paper dolls were among our most prized possessions. These weren’t lame-ass for-kids paper dolls that were already perforated for you. With the classic Judy Garland paper dolls, you had to use SCISSORS. We were meticulous. Our dear mother was secretly annoyed because she hoped that we would be daunted by the lack of perforation and abandon Judy Garland and then she could snatch it up and use it for costume inspiration, but she underestimated the depth of our love for Judy. Well, Dorothy, anyway. We liked the Wizard of Oz costumes and the Meet Me in St. Louis costumes and the hobo costume. But we found the later-career Judy concert costumes sort of unsettling for reasons we couldn’t place (WHERE ARE HER PANTS?). And listening to late-career Judy in concert on cd didn’t help. And though we couldn’t articulate this at the age of 10 (or whatever), that unsettled feeling was the profound horror and disappointment that Dorothy, the girl we most wanted to be aside from maybe Stacey from The Babysitter’s Club, grew up to be a scary, strung-out old lady screaming about trolleys.

And who knows if Stacey is doing any better.

Monetary value: The plates that I didn’t cut out might be worth something to some nutty collector.

Nostalgic value: Huge. This book gave us our first taste of camp.

Disposal status: Mom finally got her wish – she kept it for costume inspiration.