Chaos Theory
Breaking the Friendship (Blow) Mold
A tacky piece of nostalgia glows in remembrance
By Cassie Bustamante
As a former vintage home store owner, I love all things vintage Christmas. Atomic-era tinsel trees? Yes, please! Shiny Bright ornaments? My attic screams, “Got those!” Bottlebrush trees? I have as many as Ariel has thingamabobs: 20. Actually, probably more. But one quintessential decoration that dominated the ’50s and ’60s holiday scene I’ve never been terribly fond of: blow molds. That is, until recently. As it turns out, the tackiest tchotchke can light up the temporal lobe of your brain, where the fondest memories live, long after a loss.
What are blow molds, you ask? The tawdriest of yuletide kitsch, they are generally large, hollow, plastic figurines, designed to be used outside on lawns, porches or rooftops, in the shape of snowmen, Santa, angels, candy canes, you name it. And, you guessed it, they’re illuminated from within, like glowworms.
Sarah, my shop co-owner, and I agreed on most things. In fact, in our almost five-year partnership, we never had a real dispute and we understood the rarity of that. What we did have was a mutual sarcastic, dark sense of humor. We shared snarky inside jokes that only we understood; 10-hour road trips to the beach, just the two of us and our combined lot of four kids; a love for ’80s songs. Without fail, every time she walked in the shop’s front door, I’d serenade her with Jefferson Starship’s “Sara.”
We were not exactly twins. Physically, Sarah, whose sandy-brown hair cascaded in natural waves, was much shorter. When we’d try to move furniture around the shop together, she’d remind me that she had “T-rex arms” and couldn’t wrap herself around long dressers like I could with my own, which are unusually long. While we both valued fitness, she was devoted to her gym routine and lifted weights, and I relished in long, solo runs.
And Christmas? We both whole-heartedly loved the season — the music, the vintage decor, the cozy wool sweaters. We ran full-speed-ahead when it came to decorating our shop for the holidays. Bowls were filled with shimmering ornaments. Lights were strung throughout, draping over gilded gesso mirrors and winding around vintage flocked trees. And every year in the late summer and early fall, we’d roll up in our SUVs, trunks full of holiday finds to sprinkle throughout. Much to my dismay — Sarah’s truck would always haul in a stash of blow molds.
Sarah would walk in and sheepishly grin at me, knowing the disdain I held for their cheap, plastic aura. But, I knew, this store was not mine — it was ours. And while nothing, of course, comes to mind, I probably brought in some dreck Sarah wasn’t especially fond of. Maybe.
In 2016, both of us ready to move on, we made the tough decision to sell our store. She wanted to get back to the career she’d abandoned when she’d had her kids. And I wanted to add another babe to my own brood. With gratitude for what we’d built together, we let it go, selling it to a pair of sisters who’ve taken it farther than we’d ever hoped.
Of course, we stayed in touch and got together when her work schedule allowed. She came to my shower when I did, indeed, carry another baby, Wilder, in my belly and she gave me some of my favorite onesies, complete with humorous wordplay: “gangsta napper,” for example. Shortly after he was born, we moved to Greensboro. Again, Sarah and I kept in touch as time allowed, often via texts laced with those jokes that only we would understand.
Then, in October of 2021, Sarah died suddenly. And though my iPhone incessantly tells me I need to clean out or upgrade my storage, I keep our text chain. One message, in particular, stands out.
Me: “Just wanted to say hi and I miss you — I think of you more than I make the effort to message you. Sweet Clover [our shop] feels like another lifetime.”
Sarah: “I could have written this text, too. Think of you all the time and our hijinks.”
As Christmas approaches this year, I spend many evenings cruising my Starmount neighborhood with my family, admiring the blinking and glittering lights and yard decorations throughout. And every time we pass a vintage blow mold, its warm glow of red, white and green mocks me with the playful sarcasm of a close friend. OH
Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.