I am not a child. I do not have a child. I do not have a grandchild. And yet I recently visited the Please Touch Museum in Philadelphia, a collection of interactive exhibits encouraging, no, demanding, that children explore and learn.
The reason for my visit was to view artifacts from my childhood, for you see, I was once a child. My mom was from Philadelphia, my grandparents lived there their entire lives. I spent weeks during summer vacations with them. Mom and I would often take the train “downtown” from our home in the suburbs for the city’s offerings. I loved everything about it: the skyscrapers, the shopping, the purposeful way people walked, the history, OH, THE HISTORY, the soft pretzels we would buy from street vendors, taking them home to enjoy later. The adventure began as soon as we boarded the train, the uniformed conductor assisting me and my little girl’s short legs up that first enormous step from the ground, the rapid “click click” as he punched our tickets, his booming voice as he called out each stop. I can still recite all the train stations in order. Most of all, I liked knowing that my mom spent her youth here, now doing with me what she and my nana had done together, in a place so very different from where I was growing up.
A trip to Philadelphia before Christmas was a yearly tradition. The legendary Light Show At John Wanamaker department store never ever disappointed, a seemingly giant musical Lite-Brite featuring every element of the holiday season. As we stood in the Grand Court watching the spectacular, I would look up at my mom and see the same wonder in her eyes that I was feeling. Both of us cried every time we bid farewell to Frosty. “Goodbye, Frosty! Goodbye!”
After the show we would make our way to the cavernous, beautiful elevator. We entered, turning to face the heavy wood doors, watching them close. As we began to lift, my stomach dropped a bit. My heart, however, soared with each floor we passed on our way up, my eyes fixed on the numbers . . . 6, 7, 8! The doors opened, delivering us to another world. Brightly painted signs, in red and green, greeted us. I don’t remember what they said but I can still picture the big, bold arrows on them, directing us to our destinatiion: The John Wanamaker Toy Department.
Santa was present sometimes but I never sat on his lap. I was there for one thing, my annual ride on the John Wanamaker Monorail. Suspended from the ceiling by a track, it made a circuit around the toy department (think the film, “Elf”). Low tables were scattered throughout, displaying all the hottest toys. If batteries were required, the toy had them so that it could be played with and wanted, marketing at its purest and finest.
I don’t have a memory of how I got up to the monorail but I can easily recall climbing in and sliding to the window. No seatbelts in the 1970’s! As we began to move, I would look down over the entire toy store. I could see Mom looking up at me, we would wave at each other. One year there was a small robotic dog with brown fur and a red tongue at a table. The puppy had a blue cord attached to it, at the other end of that covered wire was a power pack with push button controls. The dog would walk, sit or bark depending on which switch you chose. I could hear him yapping as we circled the department, I looked for his wagging tail as we made the turn above him. I was thrilled to find him under the tree on Christmas morning. Back then this was a revolutionary toy but I didn’t care about technology in those days. He was as real to me as any fur and bone dog and I loved him.
That monorail was one of the highlights of my year. Now I wonder if it was the start of my love of airplanes and flying, but at the time this was the limit to my sky. It did not seem restricted though, it felt as boundless as joy always does.
We made our way through the displays, heading upstairs when we had completed everything on the first floor. I knew the monorail was somewhere in the building, the anticipation of seeing it again as palpable today as it was five decades ago on that elevator making its ascent. Due to both its tucked away location at the museum and my vsual impairment, I would have missed it. But my husband, who had been walking ahead of me, stopped rather abruptly, stepped off to the side and turned to stare at me. Unable to see his face, I sensed its expectant look. He knew nothing of this form of his wife’s early transportation except for her occassional reminiscences. But he does know what the past can mean to her in the present.
There to my right was my monorail. 
No one but us was in the area so I had no small human nearby as a size reference. I could not comprehend that I was once that small, especially when I always felt so big while riding in it. In this Please Touch Museum, I touched the monorail in the way that I do now, my fingers taking the place of my eyes. However, this time I reached out not to experience something new but rather to greet an old friend. How could we possibly be together again? How could this be? I’ve been to many museums in my life but this was a piece of MY history, an antiquity from MY ancient time.
The John Wanamaker Monorail no longer runs. My mom has been gone for twelve years. The battey-operated dog was donated long ago. Yet standing there with my palm flat against it, I felt the monorail’s hard seat beneath me, I heard the little brown furry pup woofing away. This time I didn’t look down to see my mom, I looked up for her. “Mom, can you believe it?,” I said softly, with tears in my eyes, giving it a pat. “Hello, Monorail. Hello.”
#sisterrain #alittlesightalotofheart #legallyblindwriter #lightshowatjohnwanamaker #pleasetouchmuseum #johnwanamakermonorail
