Amber's Legacy

Raising a child in near poverty is unimaginable. Raising a little girl in near poverty and having that child feel, even as an adult, that she was fortunate . . . unbelievable.

I'm not proud of our circumstance, nor am I ashamed of it. It was what it was. My parents made some bad decisions and did the best they could with the results. Now, for that, I am proud.

I remember moving into our house when I was four. The roof sagged, sections of the ship lap outside were missing, and busted sheetrock dangled form the walls in ruin. As my dad gave me the ten cent tour he fell through the rotted bathroom floor. It was seven hundred square feet of ramshackled beauty. It was our home.

I knew more about carpentry and southern engineering at the age seven than most foremen. It was about this time too, that I started to truly understand our financial situation. I knew my father paid child support for three other children. I knew he drank a lot. I knew my clothes, our house, our everything, looked shabbier than most. I knew my mother worked the graveyard shift. Until now, I hadn't understood what it all meant.

My mother and I used to climb in dumpsters behind grocery stores and get produce. We bought our meat inside; we had standards. Our furniture was the broken rubbish of our neighbors. Our wardrobe, curbside treasures, were washed in the bathtub, and mended. We scavenged the dump regularly. I finally understood; we were poor-class.

Holidays were just a break from school. We celebrated nothing except my parents' anniversary. It was a family affair. To an outsider it wouldn't seem like much, a couple of cheap gifts wrapped in newspaper or brown paper bags decorated with a child's scribbles. But, let me tell you, the finest Christmas tree and Fourth of July fireworks couldn't hold a candle to the sheer beauty of those days.

Little by little, things improved on the money end, but not too much. When I was eight, Cabbage Patch Kids were all the rage. All the girls at schools showed off their "adoption" certificates. I never played with dolls. Stuffed animals were more to my liking. Dolls were babies, and I was just too busy and too hard pressed to take on that kind of responsibility. Yet I wanted one. It was a trophy doll, a child's Lamborgini. I never bothered my parents about it, sometimes just thinking about something is bad enough.

That winter my parents said we were going to the store. We did. We pulled up to Toys R Us and my stomach sank. We can't afford anything here. We need groceries, new shingles, dad's boots are falling apart . . . I would have cried, if it wasn't so childish, instead I sucked it in. As we walked down the isles, my parents talked about how they just had to "pop in" for something. You can't bullshit a bullshitter I thought, but kept my mouth shut. I don't think I truly grasped the phrase; but, I knew it fit. I also knew if I said it out loud my butt would pay for mouth's mistake.

Maybe if I don't show any interest we can just leave. As I rounded the next corner, my breath caught. Lining each shelf, were rows upon rows of Cabbage Patch Kids. One in particular caught my eye. She was an astronaut in a shiny cardboard shuttle, decked out in space gear, and she had red hair just like Brandi, my best friend. I stood in front of her, but willed my hands not to touch. She was nearly sixty dollars. "What do think of her?" my mom asked.

"Not much. She's an over priced rag doll. Look," I pointed at the doll's mouth, "she has two teeth. You'd think for what they're charging here, you'd get a full set. She's sooooo ugly!"

I left the isle as quick as I could and continued shopping, mostly just looking at price tags. Finding a clearance bin that held . . . oh my goodness . . . a pair of shoestrings with multicolored balloons running up the laces, I feigned excitement. "Oh, these are so cute! . . . but, I don't need them." Everything in the bin was seventy nine cents. I figured this way, we all won. They got to get me something new, I got a pair of laces, which I did like, and we wouldn't break the bank.

We left the store empty handed. I was relieved. New Year's Eve came, their anniversary. To be honest, I can't tell you what I gave them. All I remember is a large present wrapped in iridescent paper with a red foil bow sitting on the couch. I didn't want to open it. I didn't want to destroy that pretty paper, but I did. After all, I was a kid. Good intentions are often over ruled by curiosity and selfish wonder. Inside was Amber, my very own astronaut Cabbage Patch Kid. That night I did cry.

I played with her for years until I really was too old for dolls. Toward the end, I played with her more out of obligation than enjoyment, though Amber and I did have some fun times. Actually, that's not entirely true. I played with her because I loved my parents, because she was a reminder of their love.

She wasn't so much a status symbol as a tribute to sacrifice, and I knew it. Amber was worth so much more than her price tag. When you're poor, a little goes a long way. I don't remember my father drinking much that January. And my mom's church-stockings weren't blessed but "holey" none the less, for several weeks. We all ate generic noodles and weenies until spring. But, it was okay. In fact, it was great. I had Amber.

I'm nearly thirty now. Amber is gone. I gave her to a little girl in my neighborhood several years later. She needed Amber more than I, her family wasn't nearly so fortunate.