There are special models, and then there are Special Models.
Today’s Sentimental Journey post features just one model, but he’s got a great story. I wrote about him during one of the many end-of-year Facebook photo challenges that were popular at the end of the last decade, and much of the text that follows came straight from that post.
The setting: Eleven year-old me just got my first Breyers for Christmas (the subject of last month’s Sentimental Journey post). In one of the boxes was a 1990 Breyer manual, with a card on one end to subscribe to the Just About Horses magazine. I was frothing at the mouth because not only did I just realize that there were HUNDREDS of Breyers - not just the ones made for the JCPenney catalog - but there was an entire magazine about them, too.
Today’s Sentimental Journey post features just one model, but he’s got a great story. I wrote about him during one of the many end-of-year Facebook photo challenges that were popular at the end of the last decade, and much of the text that follows came straight from that post.
The setting: Eleven year-old me just got my first Breyers for Christmas (the subject of last month’s Sentimental Journey post). In one of the boxes was a 1990 Breyer manual, with a card on one end to subscribe to the Just About Horses magazine. I was frothing at the mouth because not only did I just realize that there were HUNDREDS of Breyers - not just the ones made for the JCPenney catalog - but there was an entire magazine about them, too.
My parents, being awesome, paid for a subscription for me. Back then, it was $7.50 for the year (six issues). A few weeks later, the first magazine arrived. (Picture above courtesy of Identify Your Breyer, and picture below courtesy of Breyer Horse Ref, because I don’t have access to my JAH magazines at the moment.)
Inside was this spread with the 1991 Limited Edition, Dream Weaver.
Little eleven year-old me was instantly in love.
I showed him to my parents, and I’m sure I went on and on about how much I wanted him, without much thought to how I’d actually get him. As a brand new collector, I didn’t know where Breyers were sold, and I hadn’t been to Toys “R” Us yet to discover that treasure trove. This was also early 1991, and the internet wasn’t a thing, so there was no whipping out a phone and tossing a few search words into Google to find the nearest dealer.
I don’t remember being distressed about finding him; I think I just trusted that someday, I would.
Fast forward to spring. I came home from school one day and I could immediately tell my mom was up to something. She had that suppressed, fizzy energy of someone just waiting to launch a surprise. I walked into the living room ... and there he was, new in his box, sitting on the small round table in front of the windows.
He was mine.
He's got some war wounds on him from various adventures and from being a Tippy McTipperson (had to borrow one of my car air freshener plug-ins to help him stand for the photo), but I wouldn't have him any other way.
For years, I assumed it was my mom who had managed to find him, since she was there when I first saw him and was clearly so excited to give him to me. But at some point along the way, she told me that the credit for finding him goes to my dad. I don’t know where he found him, and I’ll never ask, because I don’t want to know. The not-knowing is part of the magic.
My parents have given me a lot of models over the last 35 years, but this guy will always be my favorite. I will never forget how special and loved I felt that day.
My parents have given me a lot of models over the last 35 years, but this guy will always be my favorite. I will never forget how special and loved I felt that day.
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