Things from the Sears catalogue you begged your parents for
Thin pages, dog-eared corners, and a wishlist that could bankrupt Santa.
Nostalgia
The Sears catalogue was an inch and a half thick and it arrived like a sacred text every autumn. You sat on the living room floor with a pencil and circled everything you wanted for Christmas, which was approximately half the book.
The toy section was at the back, and the pages got softer and more crumpled every day as you flipped to it. Electric race car sets, Evel Knievel stunt cycles, Easy-Bake Ovens, chemistry sets that would get a manufacturer arrested today. Your mother used the front half for curtains and bedsheets. Your father ignored it entirely until he needed a socket wrench.
By December the catalogue was held together by hope and a rubber band. You’d memorised every item number on your list. And on Christmas morning, if you got even one thing from those circled pages, it was the greatest day of your life.
Your turn
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