My Mother is de-cluttering. She is un-hoarding. She is liquidating the contents of her house.
And like a museum of my childhood I hadn't intended on visiting anytime soon--let alone, knew existed--each time she visits, my mother, curator, delivers bags and boxes of my past.
Like this...thing.
What is it? It's a nurse mouse, as much as I can figure. It is also a bank.
No one in our immediate family was a nurse or had ever been a nurse when this bank was given to me...when? Who knows.
I didn't want to be a nurse when I grew up. Or a veterinarian.
The nurse mouse doesn't represent a beloved cartoon character from my 1970's Saturday morning lineup--which was, no doubt, odd. Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids, remember them? The kids who hung out in a junk yard? How about the Sid & Marty Krofft classic, "Lidsville," the live-action kids show about a town full of hat people?
There were no coins in the nurse mouse bank.
And no Charles Nelson Reilly in my kids' childhood.
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