Imaginary friends

My mother walked into the bathroom and saw an odd sight. Her two-year-old son was lying on the floor whispering fervently into the heat vent.

"Who are you talking to?" she asked.

"The monkeys," I mumbled.

"What monkeys?"

I didn't answer.

"What monkeys?" she repeated.

"Figgy and Guffietz!" I said brusquely.

"There are monkeys named Figgy and Guffietz in there?"

I nodded, very seriously.

"What are they doing in there?" my mother asked.

But there was a note of amusement in her voice. I recognized it and was wary. Yes, they were monkeys, but there was nothing silly about them. I didn't want them to become playthings for the whole world. "They're just bein' there!" I said loudly. Actually, they did swing around on pipes occasionally, but I didn't want to let that key bit of information out.

Soon the whole family knew of the monkeys in the heat vent, and to the great credit of my mother, father and sister, they never made fun of me, and tried not to intrude when I was conferring with Figgy and Guffietz, despite the fact that there was only one bathroom on the second floor and I was frequently tying it up, deep in discussion with my imaginary friends.

There are several reasons young children create imaginary characters like my two monkeys. This book will touch on those reasons, but most of the pages will be devoted to the friends themselves -- the children and the amazing creations that spring from their fertile imaginations. For instance...

Well, Figgy and Guffietz were only my first two. Soon there was also Hank, a cowboy who lived in the downstairs coat closet. Sometimes, when all four of us humans were sitting in the living room of an evening, I would suddenly stand up, march across the room, step into the closet and close the door. My family would then hear the sounds of muffled conversation and try very hard not to laugh too loudly. Hank, by the way, always stood at attention next to the American flag that was rolled up on its flagpole and propped into a corner of the closet, awaiting the Fourth of July.

My last and, according to my family, greatest creation was Darling Beauty. She lived in the Spanish moss hanging from the trees in St. Petersburg, Florida. She was long and slender and gorgeous, and she had long, gorgeous black hair and a long red dress. Everything about her was long and gorgeous and flowing, the better to drape herself amid the graceful moss. We drove from Cleveland, Ohio, to Florida every other year or so, and, for a wonderful while, Darling Beauty would always be there waiting for me when we returned.

"Do you see her yet?" some family member would ask.

"No," I would say grumpily, always on the lookout for amusement on their parts. But finally the excitement would build too high and I would forget to be wary, and then I would yell, "There she is!"

More than a quarter of all children have imaginary friends in their lives at one time or another. If you were one of them (the children, not the imaginary friend), please consider sending me a note about the experience (jdmiller49@yahoo.com). Your story might become part of a real book someday.


J. Mudcat Miller