Mr. Mouth
The mechanical mouth clapped its giant trap and spun in a circle, as we attempted to flick plastic tokens onto his tongue. I can still hear the whirring of the gears, the clapping of his orifice and the giggling as tokens flew all over the living room. Flicking the tokens as far as we could—and at each other—became the point of the game, instead of aiming for the mouth. Invariably, my brother would stick his fingers in Mr. Mouth and jerk his hand back as the plastic teeth came down, yelling “Ouch!”—followed by his trademark forced laugh and a shaking of his hand.
Why was this so entertaining? Childhood memories sweep in and I cannot help but think how silly —and likely annoying— this activity must have seemed to any outsider or adult. Would such a game even sell now? I wonder.
I am curious what happened to Mr. Mouth. Likely his fate was met long ago when I left for college and filled a box for goodwill, though I cannot specifically remember. Ah the simple pleasures of childhood in the 1970s.
Snow Days
Light, cold, and fresh I catch a snowflake on my tongue in the midst of building what is sure to be the most fantastic snow fort ever. Preparing for the epic snowball fight at the end of the driveway, I am thrilled school was cancelled. No school means white, wintery fun, sled-riding, a frozen nose and snow down my back.
I used to love the snow, but as I’ve gotten older I’ve grown less and less fond of the cold, white stuff. I grow tired of being cold and long for summer, sunshine and sand in my teeth, rather than a snowflake on my tongue.
I do appreciate the beauty of the white blanket coating the ground and trees, but I prefer to admire by way of a photograph, or through a window—where inside I am warm and cozy with hot tea in hand. As I sip I reflect on the memories of snowflakes on my tongue… breaking icicles in the street … stomping in slush on the road… coats, boots, hats, mittens, scarves… seeing my breath… snowball in the face… time to retaliate.