There are very specific things that come to mind when I think of “retro”. Crome. Yellow. Art deco. My grandma. But one thing that does not come to mind? Me!
It was an innocent moment, sitting with my four-year-old son, flipping through a toy catalog. His eyes of delight spied everything he wanted on his Christmas list. It took me back. To our Fir Woods House. Sears Catalog. The anticipation. The wait of what Santa would choose from among the dog-eared pages.
We’d just about gone through the entire catalog, almost every page with a turned down corner, when we came to the second to last page. Something caught me eye. Something familiar. Something that dinged a bell inside my NOT SO DISTANT past.
It was an exact replica of a Snoopy sno-cone machine I’d had as a little girl. I was delighted. “Kade,” I gushed. “Can you believe it? Mommy used to have one of those.” My body was relishing the wonderment. Tingling, almost. It was all there. The little red shovel to scoop out the ice. The Woodstock squeeze bottle for the sickeningly sweet syrup. The little paper cups that froze your hands when you held them.
I dipped my head closer. Read the words on the page to make sure I wasn’t imagining it, and sure enough, it was the “Retro Snoopy Sno-Cone Machine”, circa 1979.
Retro? Did that read retro?
I was indignant. Perturbed. My enchanted moment careening into exasperation. How dare they call me retro! How old do they think I am? I snapped the catalog closed. I stood. I bristled. And decided to move on and chalk it up to bad marketing.
But it’s tough to move on when the four-year-old, on an almost daily bases, brings me the catalog, turns to the sno-cone machine, and says, “Mama, here dat snow maker you had as a wittle girl. I share it with you if Santa get for me.”
I don’t have the heart to tell him, Santa doesn’t buy retro.
So I ask, do you feel retro?