I ran into Mr. Noogie yesterday in my garage, nestled among paint buckets and other clutter. He still had those bright blue eyes I gave him 25 years ago. Unfortunately, his right hand was missing. He looks much older than his age, especially in the sun where the isolation of the garage, no doubt, has been hard on him. At one time he was a revered figure in my son’s room. “Created” out of clay—the only thing I ever made out of clay—I named him after the playful act of rubbing your knuckles over someone’s head.
After the photo session, I dusted him off and put him back in the garage. I need time to think about what to do with this memory.
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