Of Childhood Treasures

On Monday I attended a little brunch get-together with some ladies, in order to visit with a friend who was in town. She lives in NYC and comes up to the North Country once a year. We enjoyed great food in a lovely setting with lively conversation.

One of the ladies who still has young children was detailing her plans to take her daughter to NYC to visit the American Girl Doll Shop. Apparently a day long visit costs $230, but you get part of the money back to spend at the shop. The doll visits a "spa" at the shop and has her hair done, etc. The visit includes a "photo shoot" with girl and doll resulting in a magazine cover style photo.

One of the other ladies of my vintage and I got talking about our childhood dolls. We both had baby dolls, with cloth bodies and hard plastic limbs. They had a small hole in the mouth where a bottle could be inserted, but of course, there was nothing in the bottle. If you were lucky you might have a doll whose eyes open and shut.

As a preschooler, my favorite doll was of that type. I named her Becky, and I loved her dearly. I actually acquired her by theft. A neighbor who was a grandmother had toys for her grandchildren when they visited. Among them was a beat up old doll that for reasons no one else understood, I fell in love with. I didn't think I was stealing her, because I left my beautiful new doll in her place. My mother, however, viewed it as a crime. She tried to make me take her back with an apology and retrieve my nice new doll. The neighbor said that if I loved the doll so much, I should be able to keep her. Becky was my favorite, but being second-hand when I acquired her, she eventually became dirty and her insides began to fall out. My mother deemed her a health hazard and threw her away. The story goes that I dug her out of the trash 3 times, and my parents finally dismembered her and threw her away in pieces.

One of the ladies at the brunch who knew my mother in later years could not believe my sweet dear mother would have dismembered and discarded my doll. But, it was my mother herself who told me the story. I don't remember it, or the tears I expect I must have shed.

I do remember that I had a stuffed Scotty dog, who slept with me every night into my teen years. He had a little plaid tam on his head and a music box in his stomach. When the metal edge of the box started wearing through the fabric and his stuffing began falling out, I decided to take action. Perhaps, I subconsciously remembered my Becky being thrown out when she got excessively shabby. I carefully slit the hole big enough to slide the music box out, stuffed the hole with cotton and sewed him up.

Scotty and I are now over 60. I don't sleep with him anymore and haven't in a very long time. His hat is long gone, but he sits in my bedroom and still has both of his red button eyes.