Beech Tree News Network

My husband, Garey, despises weeping willow trees.  The reason he despises weeping willow trees is because he connects them with the annoying behavior of his younger sister, Charlotte.  As a child, Charlotte was notorious for honing in on activities that worried the daylights out of her older brother.  Garey was often a captive audience while riding in the back seat of the family Buick with his sister.  Charlotte decided she would count all the weeping willow trees between their home and any given destination every time the car pulled out of the driveway.  Garey still remembers hearing one weeping willow, two weeping willows, three weeping willows…and on and on it went every time they pulled out of the driveway.
    I understand all too well about attaching negative feelings to objects that bring others joy.  I feel the same way about the Slinky.  You know what a Slinky is, don’t you?  It’s that coil of wire that was developed by the naval mechanical engineer, Richard James in 1945.  James stumbled upon the toy while he was in the process of “…developing springs that could support and stabilize sensitive instruments aboard ships in rough seas” (Wikipedia.org). 
    During the 60s when I was growing up, TV programs aimed at kids were inundated with ads for the Slinky, and my sisters and I were like every other kid in America, we wanted one.  We were always being told by our parents that we needed to be thankful for what we had, and that money didn’t grow on trees, and every other adage that sprung to mind in order to justify not being able to afford a toy your kids wanted.  As an adult, I understand the difficult position they were in, and if the Slinky and the desire for one had stopped there, I would have no emotional attachment to it whatsoever.  But the story didn’t stop there.
    One summer during the 60s, my stepmom decided we would keep my younger cousins, Lonita and Stacey for a week in order to give my aunt and uncle a break.  My sisters and I looked upon this week as an exercise in babysitting more than a chance to have new playmates.  They were our little shadows during that week, doing everything we did, going every place we went, even on our weekly trip to Louisville to the grocery store.
    In the grocery store, we would always follow Mom and Dad through the store, watching as they picked out things we needed for the following week.  We didn’t dare ask for anything extra.  We knew there was barely enough for necessities.  With Lonita and Stacey, it was a different story.  They picked up everything they saw and tried to put it in the shopping cart.  We watched our parents closely, expecting them to dole out the harsh punishment we would have suffered if we’d tried such a thing.  They didn’t.  My stepmom spoke with a kind, patient voice, reserved only for her team of mules at our house, telling the two youngsters they couldn’t have the things they’d plucked from the shelves.
    As we rounded the cereal aisle, there was a large end cap with a toy display.  In the center of the display were several boxes of Slinkys.  Lonita made a beeline for the toy.  She picked it up and dropped it into the shopping cart.  My stepmom removed it and put it back onto the shelf.  The show was about to begin.  I don’t believe to this day, I have seen a meltdown of the proportions of the one involving my young cousin in that grocery store that evening, and I live with Sabria Hughes.
    My dad finally intervened in the contest of wills with, “Oh, let her have it!” My mom put the toy back into the cart, and we continued shopping in the kind of silence that usually accompanied these trips.  I think my sisters and my silence was from shock that Lonita’s ploy had worked.  Lonita held her Slinky in her lap all the way back home, where she refused to let any of us have a turn with the toy.  I was probably old enough to have been more understanding about the situation than I was.  I felt betrayed, like I would feel many times at the hands of my parents before I was grown. 
    That year for Christmas, my sisters and I got Slinkys.  It was too late.  The lesson had been learned.  Others came first.  Let them keep their Slinky.
    Years later, my dad would tease Lonita about the Slinky meltdown in the grocery store.  On his
70th birthday, he opened a gift from her.  It was a Slinky.  They laughed.  My sisters and I didn’t.  When dad passed away, I was looking at the beautiful flower arrangements so many friends and family had sent.  Something caught my eye at the center of one of the prettiest—a Slinky, from my cousin, Lonita.  I could hear Charlotte counting, one weeping willow, two weeping willows, three weeping willows…