Where are the hippos of yesteryear?

That's me on the left with the hibiscus blossom in my hair.

No matter how deeply a memory is submerged, someday it will surface on Facebook.

I had forgotten the hippos. And the hippo party. And the immense amount of time I must have devoted to cutting and piecing together intricate little bits of fabric to make stuffed hippos for myself and my two close friends.

This must have been around 1977 or 78, when we were 16 and could think of nothing better to do than to write silly songs about our stuffed hippos. They had names, of course: the purple one, Harriet, was mine, while the yellow plaid was Harmony and the pink fleece hippo was Hilary. It's possible that the tattered remains of Harriet live in a box stashed away in a closet at my parents' house, but I doubt it.

Last night Hilary's keeper posted hippo photos and tagged me so all my Facebook friends can be reminded of a time when 16-year-old girls threw parties for stuffed animals. In the current media climate, it's hard to imagine that adolescence need not be a seething mire of angst, shame, and ennui. Sometimes youthful energy can be steered toward silliness--and then everyone smiles.

Even the hippos.