I didn’t have a car. I didn’t even have keys. I drove a gold single-speed Schwinn with coaster brakes and sparkly handlebar tassels. But I coveted a keychain at the local department store for two reasons: It was orange, and it had my name on it.
I can still see where it was in Harts Family Center, on a carousel atop a small square display island next to the glass bunker where they sold watches and jewelry. I never looked at the jewelry, but I passed it on my way to my second favorite department, sporting goods. (School supplies was first.)
I was probably nine when I led Dad to the keychains and showed it to him. He asked why I needed a keychain. I would have taken that as an invitation to persuade. Start with the obvious: I would need keys someday, and this one was perfect because it was my favorite color and said “Laura.” And if we waited, it might be gone. And it was only $1.29, or whatever the price was. Then I looked him in the eye and grinned a little.
I’m pleased to be writing in the de(tales) series at Cara Strickland’s blog. To read the rest, please click here.