Mr. Impossible

I got the travelling itch from my parents. When they were first together they travelled throughout Europe having adventures and when my brother and I were born didn’t let having two little babies stop them. It was much cheaper to travel with young children back then, I think, and they carted us around, having us famously (but only occasionally) sleep in pulled out drawers. I have distant memories of being in Europe when I was very young, but when you are a kid and you’re with your family you are home anywhere and you don’t notice your surroundings in the same way. I do remember what any kid would remember; my own stuff. There was the Raffi and Sharon, Louis and Bram tapes which I can still hear when I imagine driving around the blue-grey French countryside. There were my toys, of course. I remember playing with Muppet Baby paper dolls in a sunny garden, I think on the same day that my late step-granddad got stung by a bee and had to go to the hospital briefly as he was allergic. I remember (how could I not) my Chitatica Banana. She was my Chiquita Banana. She was inflatable and had a matching red hat and skirt. She had hung in the window of some grocery store and I had liked her so much my parents were able to buy her for me (I was spoiled). I just loved her. She came back to Canada with us and eventually she had to be stuffed with cotton in order to keep her figure. But that didn’t stop me from throwing multiple weddings for her and Cat in the Hat. (What could they have had in common, other than distinctive head gear?)

Then there’s the story I like less about the My Little Pony that I stupidly lifted towards the car window, probably to see her mane blow majestically in the wind, only to have her fly out onto the freeway. Spoiled as I was, my Dad made a quick and wise decision: No, we were not stopping for her. Speaking of car windows, I also had a series of Garfields with the sticky little tabs on the limbs, and to this day when my parents are keeping fun of the way little Max behaved in Europe they chant what I allegedly would shout after a long day in the car: “Where is my gite (French word for a rural hotel)?! Where is my GARFIELD!?”

Then, of course, there were books. There were many, but what I remember most distinctly were the Mr. Men books (and there later, more politically-correct Little Miss counterparts). They came out in Europe first and I believed he owned some in French. My favourite, as it went down in family lore, was Mr. Impossible. Maybe because he was inexplicably magic. What’s so interesting about being happy all the time, or having really long arms, when you can do impossible things like jumping over a house? Also, he wore a top hat. Again, a distinctive hat! Might have been a pattern.

Although the series has been continued by the original author’s son (and they even have a nifty website with games for each of the current batch of Mr. Men and Little Misses, although Mr. Impossible is absent) I hadn’t thought about them for years until their recent comeback. Mr. Men t-shirts are a huge trend in Dublin right now. Everywhere you go you see Mr. Messy or Little Miss Loudmouth t-shirts of different styles and on all different kinds of people. By coincidence I brought the transgendered Mr. Man t-shirt (he has stubble, hairy legs and high-heels and is named Monsieur Madame) I bought in Paris last year to Dublin and have worn in out and about sometimes. But I decided right away, despite my meagre earnings, that if I came across any Mr. Impossible memorabilia I would have to buy it, just as I had to buy a t-shirt with a giant picture of Garfield clinging onto it in Guelph one year. Problem is, Mr. Impossible has vanished. I vainly search through t-shirts, key chains, book marks... nothing. I will not compromise with a Mr. Bossy or some such nonsense.

Wherever Mr. Impossible is, I hope he’s happy, and stays in touch with the Cat in the Hat and his wife Chiquita.