It has recently come to my attention that grown women should not obsess over silly dolls, as in, "Mom, still with the Mary Poppins thing?!" As always, there is a perfectly reasonable explanation, and as always, I feel compelled to share.
It all began in 1965.
On this road.
On this stretch near Madera, California.
In a car just like the one you see before you (Chevrolet Corvair, for the automobile illiterate among us).
We were headed north, toward Grandma and Grandpa's house, when suddenly, tragically, we blew a tire...
and, as consumer advocate Ralph Nader so aptly pointed out, the flippin' car, as it was prone to do, flipped.
As in flipped over.
As in flipped over the median.
As in flipped over the median into oncoming traffic.
In those last fleeting moments when the car was upside down on the wrong side of the road, just before the 18-wheeler slammed into us ejecting me from the vehicle, I neglected to say goodbye. Mary was gone.
Tragically, woefully gone.
Mary, I hardly knew ye.
And so, the Mary Poppins thing. I just want to hold her little plastic hand, gaze into her saucy eyes, and take one more peek inside that magic carpet bag . . . .