‘Stroll’ down memory lane brings internal strife

There it sat on the humble strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street: My stroller. I mean, my stroller—the one I rode in as a tyke, more than three decades ago.

The very-same stroller (unless I am mistaken) that my then-7-year-old sister Kaye and her neighbor-friend Suzie pushed to the end of my parents’ A-Town block and abandoned, with me in it. Apparently, they wanted to see how long it would take me to wail my head off. (More likely, they were sick of my sweet face siphoning attention from their big-girl accomplishments.) Mom dashed down to retrieve me as soon as she heard I’d been ditched—or maybe she just heard my screeching. Either way, the aluminum-tubed, umbrella-style stroller got me home. (Nothing like some all-American red -white-and-blue-striped vinyl to make a girl safe and secure in the ’70s!)

And there it lay, folded up, abandoned again, alone on the mown grass. I knew my mother didn’t know about this. I knew my father had set it there to be whisked away. By a passerby? Unlikely. Even a person in need of a stroller (and there are plenty of people in need of strollers in A-Town) would likely not stop for this carriage. It’s too old, too faded, even for a down-and-outer.

I faced a crisis moment, fraught with irony and sentimentality—a choice between loyalty and freedom.

The stroller sighting happened as I dropped off my Vi, age 10, at Grandma and Grandpa’s house the day before my annual experiment in entrepreneurial homemaking delusion. Every year—at least once a year—I envision the miraculous transformation of our cluttered house and messy finances with the wave of one magical wand and these 2 little words: “Yard Sale!” This year, I summoned a smallish amount of sense and refrained from hosting the sale on our own weed-infested lawn. Instead, I seized the invitation to haul our crap over to my co-worker’s house. She loves a good sale…and a good auction, a good thrift store, a good ebay find... In short, she’s like me. Except she’s much more easy-going, which makes her a much better sale host. Even in the rain. (Yes—sigh—it rained the morning of our sale. But more on that another time. Back to the stroller in the grass.)

What made my stroller-in-the-grass moment so ironic was that I was knee-deep in de-cluttering when Vi asked to be delivered from the yard-sale-prep tedium at our house to the sew-bake-watch cable TV excitement readily available at G&G’s. I gladly took the short break to drive her “across town” (6 blocks away). I saw the stroller as I was leaving. I had the Tercel in reverse, and I held my foot on the brake for a long pause while I carried on a mental conversation something like:

“Oh! There’s my old stroller…Ohhh! There’s my old stroller!!!” (Memories of me and MFS, my favorite neighbor-girl, pushing dolls back and forth, barefoot in the summer sun, on the very-same sidewalk now beside me, spooled through my mind. ‘Misty, watercolor memories…’)

“It’s just a stroller, an object. It was a long time ago. You’re a grown-up now. You had a happy childhood. Enjoy the memories.”

“But…” (I pictured myself saving the stroller and displaying it…somehow artfully…in my soon-to-be-clutter-free home.)

“You don’t need that stroller to secure your happy childhood! It’s done, it’s over, it’s history. Live here and now. Make a happy childhood for your kids.”

“But…” (I imagined my Pearl, age 3, enjoying the stroller with her own dolls, her own friends.)

“No! It probably smells musty from too many years in the basement. It will be clutter at your house. It might not even be safe. The aluminum tubing might have sharp edges.”

I wondered if anyone might actually pick up the stroller—someone who really needed it, who could put it to good use. I felt that perhaps I should retrieve the stroller for my mother’s sake. I strongly suspected she would want to keep it. But something in me wanted to leave it there on the grass, partly to allow another mother the opportunity to take it, if she needed it, partly to save my mother—and myself—from the clutter-ridden consequences of our sentimentality.

I left it there.

I Left It There!!!

This was a major victory in my battle to live in the moment.

I drove away (I Drove Away!!!) and 3 hours later, when I returned to collect Vi, the stroller was gone. I walked into my parents’ kitchen and announced, as casually as possible: “Someone took it…my old stroller. I hope they get some use out of it.”

Mom and Dad exchanged glances and gestured to the back porch. The stroller had been “rescued” for another decision day.