Giraffe and The Gettysburg Photo

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

The one-eyed giraffe winks at me; not because he wants to, but out of necessity. He lost one of his small felt eyes somewhere along the past 52 years of loving use and storage. For whatever reason, I had chosen this souvenir from a family trip to the battlefields of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania – a far cry from a giraffe’s natural habitat – back in the late 1960s. 

The diminutive stuffed toy had once snugly filled my 5-year-old lilliputian hands. Its cuteness factor, which soothed my maturing heart as life became more complicated, continually secured Giraffe’s place in my keepsake box. 

Gettysburg is an interesting part of American history, unless you are five. To me, it was just another big grassy field in which to run around, interrupted by boring things called “museums” that my parents and brothers wanted to spend too much time in. But Giraffe, nestled firmly in my hand, acted as friend, confidante, and security detail from my two older brothers during the road trip. Giraffe kept me pleasantly distracted, as toys do, killing time between food breaks at The Dutch Cupboard Restaurant.

On one of our earliest family vacations, I gleefully consumed three meals a day of my favorites: hamburger (with mustard, ketchup, lettuce, and dill pickles), washed down with chocolate milk. Lucky for me, it was not Mom and Dad’s first rodeo; they easily coped with transient childhood food preferences and paid little attention to the quirky dietary demands of the last kid in line. And hey, it was vacation after all! Giraffe stood vigil on the table, silently offering the stink eye to my brothers should they try to pluck a pickle from my plate.

The only photo in my possession commemorating that trip was of Dad and me. He had carefully lifted me up onto the axel of a cannon wheel, his arm securely around my waist. Our shy smiles reflected two amigos sharing the same heart. As the youngest child, and only girl, I was the apple of Dad’s eye. Our intense team building began the day I was born. A dicey delivery serendipitously resulted in both of Dad’s girls coming home from the hospital healthy and happy. It was an enormous blessing and relief for Dad who had come dangerously close to having to choose (for the obstetrician) which life to save. In the early 1960s, “medical sophistication” was a misnomer, especially in the small town we called home.  

As I grew up, Dad was always there for me. And as with Giraffe, I could tell him anything and everything, regardless of how far-fetched. Always patiently listening, and, at least, pretending to understand, Dad offered  drama-free advice when it was warranted. A more emotional teenager than my brothers, I would quickly default to arguing with Mom. Dad, however, simply let me rant and then applied a much-needed hug and a few  gentle words – a reliable gift from childhood to the day he walked me down the aisle to my new protector. 

Dear Giraffe and the faded photo of Dad and me, would make brief appearances over the years during a few home relocations, prompting warm smiles as they were again tucked safely back into their protective digs of the keepsake box. The most recent sighting, however, resulted in a different trajectory for them. Now in plain view, their presence is enjoyed daily.

Though tiny in my adult hands, giraffe and the Gettysburg photo occupy enormous real estate in my heart as those  memories resurface in abundance. His tattered bow still intact and his little neck bent from years in my grasp, Giraffe still keeps that single eye on me from his new perch on a time capsule shelf devoted to childhood whimsies and souvenirs. A frame provides prominence and support to the old snapshot. I am certain Dad still watches over me and smiles from his perch in Heaven. And despite being an independent woman, I am still warmly comforted by my Dynamic Duo from the past. Except now, I am keeping an eye on them and preserving their legacy for my kids. 

Several of my family have returned to Gettysburg in recent years to soak up more history. I too covet a visit someday to finally see and experience it through adult eyes, minus my irreverent childhood boredom. For pure ceremonial value, my historical visit will include a burger and chocolate milk at The Dutch Cupboard Restaurant; but only for one meal, not thrice daily as my kin humorously remind me. Recreating the Gettysburg photo  will be a given. And if I should wander into a gift shop, I will no doubt look for the most unconventional of souvenirs – another petite giraffe.