Pockets

Little Jim surprised me with a visit. Actually, from his perspective, he does not come to visit me, Anma, but rather Adella, his three-year-old cousin. His mother notes that when their car pulled up to my house, he excitedly remarks, “Adella’s house.” Because it is a cruel, cold April morning, he is wearing his grey Yahoo sweatshirt. The pointed top of his hood peaks over his head and the sides envelope his chubby cheeks, giving him the appearance of a Jawa, one of those short, hooded figures roaming the Tatooine deserts in Star Wars.

My little Jawa joins us downstairs playing. Although the cousins are happy to see each other, and often spend time chasing each other through my house, today turns out to be a day devoted to parallel play, Adella is absorbed with her treasures in a basket, Jim with the vintage (at least according to eBay) Fisher Price Little People. Jim, twenty months old, has learned the natural hierarchy of the cousins, and he comes up smack dab in the middle. Adella is bigger, more verbal, and not above grabbing a toy from him. Marshall is smaller, newly mobile, and not above grabbing for Jim’s nose or eyes. So as Jim plays with his Little People, he is quite guarded. Afraid to lose the toys he has claimed, he occasionally looks to find Adella’s and Marshall’s locations. But today he is safe and he plays uninterrupted.

After a few minutes, I see my little Jawa sitting on the stairs, along with one of the Little People, a small orange ball, and a toy cup. His arms are full—he has three items, and only two hands. He holds the toys closely to his chest.  He is a bit like a monkey caught in a monkey trap, who remains trapped only because he will not release his grip. Jim is determined to keep his hold on these items even if it means he can do little else but sit on the stairs with them. So there he sits. Uninterrupted, but unable to do little else but sit and hold his treasures.

It is my duty as his Anma to teach him the value of his pockets in his sweatshirt. I am reminded of a grandfather at the turn of the last century (19^th not 20^th), Joseph F. Smith, a patriarch of dozens and dozens of grandchildren. When he encountered his granddaughter Edith who had no pocket for her handkerchief, he insisted her mother sew a pocket in the girl’s dress. He felt all children should have pockets.

“Jim,” I say, “You have pockets. You can carry your toys in your pockets, so your hands are free.” Of course, I know that more than likely, putting his treasures in his pockets will not necessarily free his hands. Undoubtedly, he will take the opportunity to pick up more toys.

“Pockets,” he repeats, intrigued. His hooded head bends far forward over his little belly toward his pockets as he watches me put his toys one-by-one into his pockets. Unfortunately, his objects are large, the fabric soft, and his hands small, so he cannot maneuver the items into and out of the pockets himself. He needs my help. For some time, together, we put the toys in and pull them out of his pockets.

Eventually we leave the basement stairs and the downstairs toys. Jim eats lunch, and all too soon it is time for him to go home. Time to empty his pockets. It will not be long before his pockets are full of rocks and sticks and leaves, just like his father’s pockets once were. But for now I remove the toys, leaving the orange ball in his pocket.

“Pockets,” he says with his hand on the ball in his pocket.  And his mother whisks him out the door. He is undoubtedly too young to remember that his Anma has taught him how to use his pockets. The deep pockets of Joseph F. Smith, full of candy--peppermints, licorice, rock candy, and musks--was the common memory his grandchildren shared. But our pocket memory will be mine, not his.

Two days later, wearing his sweatshirt, Jim comes to my house again. His hood is down; he is no longer my little Jawa, but my sweet little boy with cherubic cheeks. There are no bulges in his pocket. Somehow he has managed to retrieve his ball from his pocket. But when I look again, I spy a Littlest Pet Shop piece peeking out from his pocket. I smile. Aw, pockets.