When I was young my prized possessions were my stuffed animals and Cabbage Patch Kids. With an avid imagination and an affinity for all things cute, I spent every moment of my childhood with a teddy bear or doll in tow- exploring new worlds, playing Legos and board games or simply marveling at the cute button eyes of a furry friend or baby powder scent of ‘kids’ with such names as Adrienne Lulu, Patrick Warren and Roderick Albin (all great names for dolls belonging to a child with a major speech impediment). As for the board games I played with my faux friends, I almost always won. Keyword = ‘almost’.

Having also been a somewhat anxious child I spent many an hour fretting over my precious little family. In the summer I worried about their little plastic heads, giving each a rotation in the ‘cooling tank’ commonly known as the freezer. I tried my best to keep them clean and pristine (although, really, the washing machine is no place for a Cabbage Patch Kid, even if you do put them in a paper-thin pillowcase for protection) and I always made sure their clothes were kept up to date, having homemade pacesetters (hey, it was the 80’s) that matched my own. But at some point, most likely after having seen the movie Backdraft, there was one thing that worried me most… fire.

If I had been able to convince my parents that my request was typical of your average, every day 8-year-old I would have been allowed to cram all my dolls into a garbage bag every night. The idea was to place the bag beside my bed and, in the event of a fire, safely lower it, and everyone within, out the window and onto the ground below, with the aide of my trusty skipping rope. If I recall correctly, I was told my dolls would suffocate if I put them in a bag. And as real as I may have believed my friends to be I knew that was, quite possibly, the most absurd thing I had ever heard because, really, if they can’t hold their breath in a garbage bag than how could they possibly survive a round in the washing machine?! But, alas, my garbage bag notion was, pardon the pun, tossed out the window and, instead, I was left to lay in bed wide-eyed and terrified every evening, sure that I wouldn’t have time to save everyone individually, should a fire break out.

Its been a long time since I’ve given thought to this part of my childhood but when lightening recently struck so close to home that I thought my house had been hit I waited for the storm to pass, in fear reminiscent of my youth, and wondered: if I had to make a quick escape today… what would be in the bag?

While many things may have changed over the years- priorities, values, hair color and metabolism, the things I would rescue from fire, flood or theft are not all that different from when I was young. They are definitely not the most valuable items I own, at least not in the monetary sense. Instead, they are the things that provoke the most memory, the most sentiment and the most emotion. Of course there are the obvious things, like the cat (no need to call PETA, I would not actually put said cat in a garbage bag) but for me, like so many others, photos would be one the first thing I’d grab. Granted, you always have the memories but if your memory is like mine photos are a wonderful way to jog those memories. And it’s far easier to share stories with others if there’s a photo or two to go along. And since I, also like so many others, rarely seem to print off photos nowadays, thanks to digital photography and sheer laziness, grabbing photos would also mean grabbing my laptop.

There are other things that would go in the bag. Like the artwork I got from a friend for Christmas one year. It reminds me not only of a place where I once lived but of our time together in University, spending every moment of every day together until we became known, to professors and students alike, as ‘double trouble’. A candle holder that made its way over from Europe, courtesy of the same friend, would also be included in the mix, reminding me of a time when we were oceans apart and my imagination spun wildly with tales of Stonehenge, deep fried pickles and air so damp bed linens had to be turned down during the day. A gift from the first person my own age I knew to have traveled, it represents so much more that the adventures I lived vicariously through her, anxiously awaiting every email, postcard and her eventual return. It sparked a wanderlust for worlds unknown and represents the seed it planted that I, too, could travel. A fact that, for some reason, seemed to elude a small city, landlocked prairie girl.

I would most likely take my textbooks since I dedicated so much, or so it seems, time and effort to my schooling. While I suppose that’s what my degree represents it’s the endless papers, texts and assignments that really prove my degree’s worth. And there are fewer things in life I am more proud of than the copy of my final exam in Advanced Quantum Mechanics. After all, it did take 27 straight hours to complete and, looking back, was the perfect culmination of my studies, what with the entire class camping out at school; ordering pizza, wearing pajamas and consuming vast amounts of coffee all throughout the night, looking haggered but oh-so-proud when the light bulb struck at 3 a.m. after yet another trip to the professor’s office to clarify, one more time, what the questions actually meant.

I would toss in the turquoise clock that sits on my piano, for no other reason than the fact that I love it. Having deemed it too expensive, I purchased a smaller yellow clock instead but every time I set eyes on it I was reminded of how much I liked the original… and how much I hated its fill-in. Thankfully the sales staff at Pier 1 understood my plight and let me make the exchange.

Then there are the things that belong to a lifetime other than my own. Like the chest that belonged to my great-grandmother; the one she brought over from France that I imagine held all her treasures when she, too, was forced to choose what to take and what to leave behind. There’s a potbelly stove that came from the family farm and used to heat the house my grandfather grew up in, the one we thought would be fun to bid on in the estate auction when we could have just kept it in the ‘keep’ pile. The fun was never to be had, mind you, as we somehow missed the lot and ended up having to shell out twice as much money and endless tears to convince the buyer to sell the treasure back to its rightful heir. How can one not keep such an item that means so much and has such a great tale?

In the end, it’s surprising how little would actually go in the bag, considering how much stuff I actually own. That’s the thing about ‘stuff’… it’s just stuff. Most of it can be replaced and, when it comes right down to it, almost all of it doesn’t matter. They are merely things. They mean nothing to anyone but ourselves and they are as easily a victim to fire as they are to Father Time. They fade and break, rust and become out of style. We forget where most of them came from and what they once meant to us. And while the things that get saved from the fire may change over the years there’s one thing I am quite certain never will… the space that is taken by a doll and the occasional teddy bear. Because sometimes the things you take with you, you take them with you always.

Kristel is a Physicist, computer programmer and blogger, writing about everything from depression to dating… and sometimes even both! She lives in Saskatchewan, Canada and can be contacted at gilsner@gmail.com

Tags: home, toys