From the time I was in kindergarten through first grade I lived in Franklin, Massachusetts. Franklin is located just a bit outside of Boston. For fun day trips my family would drive up to Kittery, Maine to the trading post. We would go to the trading post, shop for the day and then meander over to Ben and Jerry’s where we would have a lovely lunch of clam strips and fries followed by ice cream.
The trading post is an interesting building that looks like a cross between a retail store and a log cabin with its plaster sides and prominent beams. There was a large target over the entrance with the words trading post spanning its diameter. There was also a sign proclaiming that they take pelts for trade. Yes, the trading post accepts pelts as a form of currency.
Trips to the trading post were always an adventure. The shelves were filled with all sorts of fleeces, decorative boxes and my favorite, stuffed animals. Every time we went to the trading post I always spent a healthy amount of time perusing the stuffed animal section. One particular visit I spotted a stuffed dog that i instantly fell in love with.
He was white and had curly, fluffy fur, perfect for nuzzling my face in. His eyes and nose were both shiny and black and his eyebrows gave him a comical yet understanding look. He was perfect.
I immediately ran to my mom and begged for the dog. Unfortunately, according to her expert opinion I already had enough stuffed animals and she was not going to spend any money to add to my collection. I begged, I bargained, I may have even shed a few tears. All of my antics were to no avail; I left that day dog less and heartbroken.
Upon my return home I immediately started scheming and plotting. After all, I am the master of manipulation, and when I want something, nothing can stand in my way. But I had already tried various twists of my tried and true methods. I needed something new to help me out. Months passed and I got on with my life, but I never forgot the dog.
Then, one day the grandparents came to visit and a trip to the trading post was put in the works. It was always a good idea to share the quaintness of Kittery with guests. I was elated. If I couldn’t get my mom to get me the dog, the perhaps I would be able to get my grandparents to buy it for me. I wasn’t sure about the specifics, but I knew that I had to have that dog.
We made the trek to Kittery and went into the trading post. I immediately headed to the stuffed animal section and started looking for the dog. I couldn’t believe it; it was still there. My heart started jumping for joy. I went to my Grandmother’s side and started talking about the most glorious dog that I had seen. I told her all about his wonderful fur, and his nice eyes, and his splendid expression. She didn’t even flinch. I didn’t understand. How could she not jump at the opportunity to buy such a fine specimen? Why was she not as enamored as I was?
I had given up almost all hope that I would ever get the dog that I so coveted. But as we were preparing to leave my grandmother approached me and asked me if there was anything I wanted. Finally. I was so excited that my pitiful looks at the stuffed animals, the high praises that I sung, and the various other signs of longing I had exhibited had finally paid off. I took my Grandmother by the hand and led her back to the stuffed animals where I grabbed the dog from the shelf. She took it from my hands and quickly gave it the once over before heading up to the checkout line. At last, the dog of my dreams was mine.
On the car ride back to Franklin, I named him. Curly Shirley Marshmallow fit perfectly. Curly because that was the name on the tag, Shirley because that is the same sound that begins my middle name and it rhymes with Curly and Marshmallow because he was so fantastically white.
Curly has been my friend from that day on. He resides in a place of honor on my pillow. He travels with me everywhere, in spite of the fact that I am twenty years and far too old to have stuffed animals. His shiny black eyes and nose are now chipped and scratched. His fluffy white fur is now matted, off white, and balding in spots. But he still has that same comical yet understanding expression that caused that I saw from the shelf in Kittery, Main so many years ago.
The trading post is an interesting building that looks like a cross between a retail store and a log cabin with its plaster sides and prominent beams. There was a large target over the entrance with the words trading post spanning its diameter. There was also a sign proclaiming that they take pelts for trade. Yes, the trading post accepts pelts as a form of currency.
Trips to the trading post were always an adventure. The shelves were filled with all sorts of fleeces, decorative boxes and my favorite, stuffed animals. Every time we went to the trading post I always spent a healthy amount of time perusing the stuffed animal section. One particular visit I spotted a stuffed dog that i instantly fell in love with.
He was white and had curly, fluffy fur, perfect for nuzzling my face in. His eyes and nose were both shiny and black and his eyebrows gave him a comical yet understanding look. He was perfect.
I immediately ran to my mom and begged for the dog. Unfortunately, according to her expert opinion I already had enough stuffed animals and she was not going to spend any money to add to my collection. I begged, I bargained, I may have even shed a few tears. All of my antics were to no avail; I left that day dog less and heartbroken.
Upon my return home I immediately started scheming and plotting. After all, I am the master of manipulation, and when I want something, nothing can stand in my way. But I had already tried various twists of my tried and true methods. I needed something new to help me out. Months passed and I got on with my life, but I never forgot the dog.
Then, one day the grandparents came to visit and a trip to the trading post was put in the works. It was always a good idea to share the quaintness of Kittery with guests. I was elated. If I couldn’t get my mom to get me the dog, the perhaps I would be able to get my grandparents to buy it for me. I wasn’t sure about the specifics, but I knew that I had to have that dog.
We made the trek to Kittery and went into the trading post. I immediately headed to the stuffed animal section and started looking for the dog. I couldn’t believe it; it was still there. My heart started jumping for joy. I went to my Grandmother’s side and started talking about the most glorious dog that I had seen. I told her all about his wonderful fur, and his nice eyes, and his splendid expression. She didn’t even flinch. I didn’t understand. How could she not jump at the opportunity to buy such a fine specimen? Why was she not as enamored as I was?
I had given up almost all hope that I would ever get the dog that I so coveted. But as we were preparing to leave my grandmother approached me and asked me if there was anything I wanted. Finally. I was so excited that my pitiful looks at the stuffed animals, the high praises that I sung, and the various other signs of longing I had exhibited had finally paid off. I took my Grandmother by the hand and led her back to the stuffed animals where I grabbed the dog from the shelf. She took it from my hands and quickly gave it the once over before heading up to the checkout line. At last, the dog of my dreams was mine.
On the car ride back to Franklin, I named him. Curly Shirley Marshmallow fit perfectly. Curly because that was the name on the tag, Shirley because that is the same sound that begins my middle name and it rhymes with Curly and Marshmallow because he was so fantastically white.
Curly has been my friend from that day on. He resides in a place of honor on my pillow. He travels with me everywhere, in spite of the fact that I am twenty years and far too old to have stuffed animals. His shiny black eyes and nose are now chipped and scratched. His fluffy white fur is now matted, off white, and balding in spots. But he still has that same comical yet understanding expression that caused that I saw from the shelf in Kittery, Main so many years ago.
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