The Anchovie Family

“…They seemed to come suddenly upon happiness as if they had surprised a butterfly in the winter woods…”

(Edith Whorton)

Sometimes I still remember so clearly.  Lying in that blissful state between sleep and wake, I remember the discovery, and suddenly I am six years old again.  The forgotten tapestries of childhood hanging dusty but clear in my mind, perfectly stitched and interwoven with hers.  We designed them with joy and pain as most children do, when they want to cling to something small and personal and kind.  Our toys were there to pat us on the back and stroke our hair.

Sometimes we were sad or bored or cold or angry.  No matter what the trouble was, the urge would grab us both at any given time.  The telepathic addiction to our dolls with their tiny lives.  I would grab her hand, and would hurtle down the passage into our paradise.  I don’t know what provoked our first discovery of the playroom; I cannot recall the point where the plastic dolls within silent eyes became a real family in our hands.  Somehow the complications and eccentricities of everyday life intertwined themselves into a key we could hold in our tiny hands and make sense of in our tiny minds.  So the Anchovies were born.  The dear Anchovie family, who lived in a small rundown apartment in Brooklyn, which we transferred to the main cupboard and kitchen sink in the Playroom.  We had never been to America but it was a tough neighborhood and we liked the idea of fire escapes and kids playing in the street with funny accents.  The Anchovies were our very own coping mechanism.  All our daily troubles could be interpreted into a problem for the Anchovie family to deal with, and we would always be assured of an answer.  Because the answer was up to us. 

The playroom’s light was the brightest in the house.  No angry words or stinging remarks could break the protective barrier of that light.  When the torment of life became almost unbearable, we closed the door, turned on the switch, sat on the floor, and became enveloped by the game until we laughed.  The very simplicity still baffles me.  The ease with which the two of us could find such warm comfort on the other side of the door.  Our very own Looking Glass, our Wardrobe to the magical land of Narnia.  A place where our imaginations could bind our dreams and our lives.  Of course, this bondage would not have been possible without the invention of Chucky.

Chucky was our girl; there was no doubt about that.  She was a reflection of our own lives in some ways, but she was also our protagonist, our hero, our role model.  Our best friend.  Although only ten centimeters tall, she was regarded in higher value than our parents at that stage.  When my friends were talking behind my back, Chucky was voted class captain.  When I failed the netball team trials, Chucky was chosen for interstate playoffs.  She was independent and boisterous.  She disobeyed all the school and home rules but was still loved by everyone for her openness and tomboyish, impish charm.  Chucky was a masterpiece.  She soothed our troubles, made us feel popular and proud without actually being alive.  I will always picture the two of us, my sister and I, tied to our beloved ‘family’ in blood knots dependence.  We needed them.  Lately I often ask myself if I will ever find such a simple and effective remedy again.  In my heart I know the answer. No.