I am grateful for sock monkeys. I don’t have one, not anymore, so perhaps I should amend my gratitude to “the memory of sock monkeys”.
I had a sock monkey when I was six or seven and had him until I was almost grown up. I say almost because … I’m not sure we’re ever completely grown up. I don’t remember where the sock monkey came from but I did love my Micky Monkey, despite his being a tad under-stuffed with flat withered balloon-like arms and a pathetic smile. I named him Micky Monkey, being certain to lose the “e” so he couldn’t be accused of impersonating Mickey Mouse.
Both my sister and I had a sock monkey. Sherry’s monkey was plump and well-stuffed with an exuberant smile and there may have been a few times when I envied her Chimpy, played with him when Sherry wasn’t around. Sherry still has her Chimpy, stuffed safely in a box where she can pull him out and love him all over again. My Micky is long gone.
I think sock monkeys are one of those toys that are ageless, spanning the decades, a recognizable treasure to several generations. This time of year we tend to think of those childhood connections that bring our memories into focus so we can hold them close. Sock monkeys and wooden toboggans and Crayola crayons all do that for me, transport me back to the innocence of Christmas and I am tucked under my family Christmas tree, just the lights on the tree aglow, Perry Como on the record player telling me his story of The Night Before Christmas and I am safe and warm and loved.
I hope sock monkeys do that for you or Slinkys or hot wheel cars or ….