Story and photo by Staff Sgt. Alexandra Longfellow
86th Airlift Wing Public Affairs September 13, 2024
RAMSTEIN AIR BASE, Germany – Grover, a Sesame Street character plush, sits alongside blue and silver pinwheels at Whiteman Air Base, Missouri in 2015. U.S. Air Force Staff Sgt. Alexandra M. Longfellow, 86th Airlift Wing Public Affairs craftsman, was gifted Grover by a police officer nearly 30 years ago. (U.S. Air Force photo by Staff Sgt. Alexandra M. Longfellow)
Red and blue lights surround my house. Tears are streaming down my biological mother’s face. Her boyfriend is yelling at the men with shiny badges and guns on their hips. I am sitting on the couch quietly.
At age five, my life was about to change dramatically in West Virginia.
My mother, Dawn, was young when she found out she was pregnant with me — just 18 years old. We lived in a Section 8 housing unit. It was a two-bedroom, one-bath house that had very little furnishings. It smelled like booze and cigarettes.
My room was barely a bedroom. Ratty towels as blankets and a dingy, yellow-stained pillow without a pillowcase were against the wall to resemble my bed, and dirty clothes were always crumbled in a pile in the corner. I had no toys, but I did have a clear storage box full of broken Crayola crayons and two coloring books — Clifford the Big Red Dog and a Disney princess.
When I was finally old enough to begin pre-kindergarten at age four, teachers quickly began noticing the signs of various abuses I had been suffering through the years. Teachers saw bruises on my arms and legs, my unkempt hair, filthy clothes, shoes that were two sizes too big, and clothes that fell off my skinny body. It was only a few short months before the authorities were contacted about what was happening in my home.
The night I saw those blue and red lights pour into the living room, a police officer knelt beside me and gave me a sad smile that showed he felt sorry for me. I don’t remember if he talked to me, but he handed me a stuffed animal — something I have kept on my bed for nearly 30 years.
Once a vibrant and fluffy companion, Grover has weathered the passage of three decades showing the signs of a life well-loved. Its fur, once a brilliant blue, has now softened to a more muted hue, bearing the marks and stains of countless tears, snotty noses, and enthusiastic embraces. Its shifting and settled stuffing give it a charmingly misshapen appearance, fitting perfectly in hand during nightly slumbers. Grover’s scent combines childhood memories and time, instantly transporting one back to simpler days.
Between ages five and eight, I quickly and efficiently learned to pack my things in black trash bags with red handles, shoving my few clothes, a hairbrush, and a toothbrush in them. I moved from one foster home to another, each lasting a few days or months. This happened fifteen times until I was eight and finally “picked” by my adoptive parents, John and Charlotte. Grover was with me at every home on the way, tucked under my arm, never in a trash bag.
“You don’t have to worry anymore,” John said softly while Charlotte was smiling, standing beside him. For some reason, I did not trust those words.
I faced problems at the beginning of this new chapter of my life. I acted out a lot. I lied about stupid things and stole things I didn’t have to. Despite the crumbs on my shirt and the chocolate on my face, I would steal Little Debbie’s snack cakes and lie about it being me. John and Charlotte took corporal and emotional punishment to the next level. Grover was always there after the trashing I would get from Charlotte.
There were so many kids in and out of our home, as John and Charlotte were also foster parents when I was growing up. I remember screaming, “Who stole my Grover? Who stole him? Who did it?” when I couldn’t find Grover sitting atop my military-style made-up bed. One of the younger foster kids decided they wanted it, and Charlotte agreed with this grimy-handed, knotted-haired, snotty nose of a kid.
“You are too old to hold a stupid stuffed animal,” she sneered.
I cried to sleep that night and didn’t even get out of bed until the sun was scorching in my room. When I finally pulled myself together to walk down the hall and force myself to participate in “family time,” I opened my bedroom door and saw Grover sitting there with a written note attached to his hand. It read, “You are never too old to have a stuffed animal. Keep me safe under your pillow from now on.”
I could only assume John wrote it, as the letters were all in small, shaky capital letters, written on yellow-lined notebook paper. I never asked him, though.
When I was eleven, John and Charlotte adopted two more children, Jennifer and Zackary, who would become my new sister and brother. Jennifer was only two years younger than me, 9, and Zack was barely one. Shortly after the adoption, we moved from Roane Country to Wood County to live closer to John’s work.
We were so excited! We would have neighbors, a park down the road we could walk to, and a swimming pool to which we could get a season pass. Neither Jennifer nor I had ever been swimming before.
Our lives would severely change the week we moved into our new home.
John and Charlotte said Jennifer and I could go to the pool on the weekend if we cleaned out the garage and basement with all the boxes from our move. We squealed with delight and decided right then and there to begin cleaning up.
“John!!” I yelled from the basement. “I accidentally tipped the weed eater that had gasoline in it on the floor. It’s all over the floor.”
John didn’t even get up from the chair and said the gasoline would evaporate, and it was okay. Excitedly, I ran upstairs with the weed eater and passed Jennifer on the stairs, heading back to grab more items. We were almost done; just a few more items left to clean the basement.
Little did he realize there was no airflow, and the gas did not evaporate. The gas leaked under the heat generator and blew it up — BANG! Black smoke filled the basement within seconds, and a fire blazed in a small section by the stairs. It was pitch black. I heard coughing. I ran towards it, realizing Jennifer was stuck down there.
Three days later, she died from third-degree burns. John and Charlotte blamed me.
For years, John and Charlotte haven’t spoken directly to me. I was never allowed to be in the same room as them. I couldn’t eat dinner with them, watch TV at night before bed…no more good night kisses. I was shunned. Again, Grover was my best friend. I cried with him, I screamed at him, I threw him, yet he was the only comfort I had.
I was depressed and had little hope that things would ever get better. I put a good face on at school, which was my sanctuary. There, I could smile, laugh, and forget how I would feel when I stepped through the doors at the end of the day to go home.
“How about you get your own room?” Charlotte asked. I stood there in shock. Was she looking directly at me, talking to me?
“Sure,” I stuttered.
My new room would be in the unfinished basement where the accident occurred.
Every night, I would grab Grover with both hands; his soft, fuzzy fur was a familiar comfort against my skin. Drawing him close, I would bury my face into his plush blue body, the fabric yielding to my touch. His scent would wash over me as I inhaled deeply – an intoxicating blend of detergent, a hint of worn-out cotton, and a faint sadness.
In my senior year of high school, John came storming into the house from a doctor’s appointment with Charlotte. “YOU…you made your mother have a nervous breakdown, and now she has brain cancer,” as he backhands me in the face. The whole left side of my body was numb, the same feeling when my feet started falling asleep.
I was shut in my room (with Grover) for the remainder of my senior year.
Three weeks after graduating high school, I boarded a plane for Air Force Basic Military Training in San Antonio, Texas. My blue-colored pal was taped up in a box awaiting my completion of training.
I had lonely nights not having Grover gripped in my hand while sleeping. My hand would pat the cold, empty side of the bed, trying to find him, but after six months of training, Grover was finally reunited with me at my first duty station in Louisiana.
While living in Louisiana, Charlotte died on Memorial Day in 2007, and only a year and a half later, John followed. It is hard to describe how I felt – mad, angry, frustrated, relieved, happy…a weight was lifted off my shoulders, yet Grover was there for me then, too.
Grover has traveled alongside me on every work trip, deployment, and vacation. Even my teenage children know how special my ratty, scrawny-looking bedtime companion is. My daughter, 16, has her Ben, a large, yellow TY Beanie Baby bear she has had since she was an infant. It was her cousin’s and given to her when she was born. My son, 14, has a soft monkey he calls Boop, named after the sound when I would “boop” him on the nose with his monkey to make him laugh.
We all have something we know will always be there for us. These worn and well-loved plushies are not just toys but a symbol of comfort and security in life’s uncertainties. Grover, Ben, and Boop will always be a comfort.
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Red and blue lights surround my house. Tears are streaming down my biological mother’s face. Her boyfriend is yelling at the men with shiny badges and guns on their hips. I am sitting on the couch quietly.
At age five, my life was about to change dramatically in West Virginia.
My mother, Dawn, was young when she found out she was pregnant with me — just 18 years old. We lived in a Section 8 housing unit. It was a two-bedroom, one-bath house that had very little furnishings. It smelled like booze and cigarettes.
My room was barely a bedroom. Ratty towels as blankets and a dingy, yellow-stained pillow without a pillowcase were against the wall to resemble my bed, and dirty clothes were always crumbled in a pile in the corner. I had no toys, but I did have a clear storage box full of broken Crayola crayons and two coloring books — Clifford the Big Red Dog and a Disney princess.
When I was finally old enough to begin pre-kindergarten at age four, teachers quickly began noticing the signs of various abuses I had been suffering through the years. Teachers saw bruises on my arms and legs, my unkempt hair, filthy clothes, shoes that were two sizes too big, and clothes that fell off my skinny body. It was only a few short months before the authorities were contacted about what was happening in my home.
The night I saw those blue and red lights pour into the living room, a police officer knelt beside me and gave me a sad smile that showed he felt sorry for me. I don’t remember if he talked to me, but he handed me a stuffed animal — something I have kept on my bed for nearly 30 years.
Once a vibrant and fluffy companion, Grover has weathered the passage of three decades showing the signs of a life well-loved. Its fur, once a brilliant blue, has now softened to a more muted hue, bearing the marks and stains of countless tears, snotty noses, and enthusiastic embraces. Its shifting and settled stuffing give it a charmingly misshapen appearance, fitting perfectly in hand during nightly slumbers. Grover’s scent combines childhood memories and time, instantly transporting one back to simpler days.
Between ages five and eight, I quickly and efficiently learned to pack my things in black trash bags with red handles, shoving my few clothes, a hairbrush, and a toothbrush in them. I moved from one foster home to another, each lasting a few days or months. This happened fifteen times until I was eight and finally “picked” by my adoptive parents, John and Charlotte. Grover was with me at every home on the way, tucked under my arm, never in a trash bag.
“You don’t have to worry anymore,” John said softly while Charlotte was smiling, standing beside him. For some reason, I did not trust those words.
I faced problems at the beginning of this new chapter of my life. I acted out a lot. I lied about stupid things and stole things I didn’t have to. Despite the crumbs on my shirt and the chocolate on my face, I would steal Little Debbie’s snack cakes and lie about it being me. John and Charlotte took corporal and emotional punishment to the next level. Grover was always there after the trashing I would get from Charlotte.
There were so many kids in and out of our home, as John and Charlotte were also foster parents when I was growing up. I remember screaming, “Who stole my Grover? Who stole him? Who did it?” when I couldn’t find Grover sitting atop my military-style made-up bed. One of the younger foster kids decided they wanted it, and Charlotte agreed with this grimy-handed, knotted-haired, snotty nose of a kid.
“You are too old to hold a stupid stuffed animal,” she sneered.
I cried to sleep that night and didn’t even get out of bed until the sun was scorching in my room. When I finally pulled myself together to walk down the hall and force myself to participate in “family time,” I opened my bedroom door and saw Grover sitting there with a written note attached to his hand. It read, “You are never too old to have a stuffed animal. Keep me safe under your pillow from now on.”
I could only assume John wrote it, as the letters were all in small, shaky capital letters, written on yellow-lined notebook paper. I never asked him, though.
When I was eleven, John and Charlotte adopted two more children, Jennifer and Zackary, who would become my new sister and brother. Jennifer was only two years younger than me, 9, and Zack was barely one. Shortly after the adoption, we moved from Roane Country to Wood County to live closer to John’s work.
We were so excited! We would have neighbors, a park down the road we could walk to, and a swimming pool to which we could get a season pass. Neither Jennifer nor I had ever been swimming before.
Our lives would severely change the week we moved into our new home.
John and Charlotte said Jennifer and I could go to the pool on the weekend if we cleaned out the garage and basement with all the boxes from our move. We squealed with delight and decided right then and there to begin cleaning up.
“John!!” I yelled from the basement. “I accidentally tipped the weed eater that had gasoline in it on the floor. It’s all over the floor.”
John didn’t even get up from the chair and said the gasoline would evaporate, and it was okay. Excitedly, I ran upstairs with the weed eater and passed Jennifer on the stairs, heading back to grab more items. We were almost done; just a few more items left to clean the basement.
Little did he realize there was no airflow, and the gas did not evaporate. The gas leaked under the heat generator and blew it up — BANG! Black smoke filled the basement within seconds, and a fire blazed in a small section by the stairs. It was pitch black. I heard coughing. I ran towards it, realizing Jennifer was stuck down there.
Three days later, she died from third-degree burns. John and Charlotte blamed me.
For years, John and Charlotte haven’t spoken directly to me. I was never allowed to be in the same room as them. I couldn’t eat dinner with them, watch TV at night before bed…no more good night kisses. I was shunned. Again, Grover was my best friend. I cried with him, I screamed at him, I threw him, yet he was the only comfort I had.
I was depressed and had little hope that things would ever get better. I put a good face on at school, which was my sanctuary. There, I could smile, laugh, and forget how I would feel when I stepped through the doors at the end of the day to go home.
“How about you get your own room?” Charlotte asked. I stood there in shock. Was she looking directly at me, talking to me?
“Sure,” I stuttered.
My new room would be in the unfinished basement where the accident occurred.
Every night, I would grab Grover with both hands; his soft, fuzzy fur was a familiar comfort against my skin. Drawing him close, I would bury my face into his plush blue body, the fabric yielding to my touch. His scent would wash over me as I inhaled deeply – an intoxicating blend of detergent, a hint of worn-out cotton, and a faint sadness.
In my senior year of high school, John came storming into the house from a doctor’s appointment with Charlotte. “YOU…you made your mother have a nervous breakdown, and now she has brain cancer,” as he backhands me in the face. The whole left side of my body was numb, the same feeling when my feet started falling asleep.
I was shut in my room (with Grover) for the remainder of my senior year.
Three weeks after graduating high school, I boarded a plane for Air Force Basic Military Training in San Antonio, Texas. My blue-colored pal was taped up in a box awaiting my completion of training.
I had lonely nights not having Grover gripped in my hand while sleeping. My hand would pat the cold, empty side of the bed, trying to find him, but after six months of training, Grover was finally reunited with me at my first duty station in Louisiana.
While living in Louisiana, Charlotte died on Memorial Day in 2007, and only a year and a half later, John followed. It is hard to describe how I felt – mad, angry, frustrated, relieved, happy…a weight was lifted off my shoulders, yet Grover was there for me then, too.
Grover has traveled alongside me on every work trip, deployment, and vacation. Even my teenage children know how special my ratty, scrawny-looking bedtime companion is. My daughter, 16, has her Ben, a large, yellow TY Beanie Baby bear she has had since she was an infant. It was her cousin’s and given to her when she was born. My son, 14, has a soft monkey he calls Boop, named after the sound when I would “boop” him on the nose with his monkey to make him laugh.
We all have something we know will always be there for us. These worn and well-loved plushies are not just toys but a symbol of comfort and security in life’s uncertainties. Grover, Ben, and Boop will always be a comfort.