Daily Post: Play Date

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Play Date

 

My sister’s house has sold and they are cleaning out her attic. My niece and I make one trip more and I find my old dollhouse, collapsed, in the garbage can. I take the pieces out—some of them—and stash them in her trunk. I’d thought them gone forty years ago when the tornado took the roof off my parents’ house, but now, here they are like the leaves of memory blown miraculously back to me.

When she sees I’ve taken them, my niece asks what she should do with the dolls she found in the back recesses of her mother’s attic storage room—the one I hadn’t got to on my last visit—perhaps because of the roofing nails sticking through the wood which made reaching back behind the eaves a physical danger.

I find them where she has stashed them In a suitcase in her garage, and when I open the case and see the first doll staring up at me, I think it is a “find” from some antique store, like the dishes in my sister’s China cabinet or the tiny figures on her shelves. One rubber arm, sticky with age, has burst open and streams kapok like a froth of bleached and fermented blood. Other limbs have decayed to nothing but empty puddles of congealed rubber. Only the torso, held in place by a sagging pink fancy gown; and the face, stained red in places from some surface it’s been pressed against for too long, are still intact. As I lift the first doll from the suitcase, the other doll—the size of a toddler—stares up at me, one eye unhinged, her hair in pigtails sealed with rubber bands. When I lift her by one arm, her head turns, her legs pump and I realize this is my Ideal walking doll. When you raise her arms, one at a time, she walks toward you and her head swings, side-to-side. Hard and beautiful, she was not a doll to cuddle and she would not sit. She stood propped up against one corner of my room, rarely played with. What, I wonder, has happened to the bright blue dress she wore? Then I look closer and see that she’s still wearing it—faded to paleness even in the dark. What is here is original—her hair, her limbs, her dress, her petticoat—but her shoes and socks have been lost to another little girl, perhaps, or have jiggled off in some trunk and been left behind.

I’m 1500 miles away from home, yet I load the child-sized dollies into my boyfriend’s trunk: my sister’s doll in it’s fancy pink floor-length formal, my doll with her eye gone wild in its socket. They won’t make it home to Mexico in my suitcase this time, but it is impossible to leave them there in the suitcase to be thrown away by someone who has no memory of them. They are not collector’s items. They have been too neglected in their lives since they stood propped up in the corners of our rooms, then in the corners of our closets, the basement, my sister’s trunk and then her attic 800 miles from where they called us their owners and stimulated our imaginations to the extent they were able.

They’ll now reside in my boyfriend’s garage in Missouri until the time comes when I can carry them back in an extra suitcase or he can mule them down for me. If they were miniatures, I could include them in a retablo or a memory box, but each head is larger than the largest assemblage I’ve ever made. The closets of my house are full and overflowing, as are the wall-to-ceiling cabinets in my garage and studio and every area of my house where I’ve had room to build a closet. But I must use them. Give them some purpose for still existing other than to fill up room in some box on some cupboard shelf.

I imagine a memory box of gigantic proportions and suddenly, I have to make it, even if it takes up all the work room of my studio, and I start to plan how I could take my own doll back with me and what I’ll have to leave: the case of books that I’ve just had printed or my clothes or all the cartridges for my laser printer? If I wear a baby carrier, will they believe it is my baby, sound asleep? And what sensation will I cause when I try to stuff her into the overhead rack?

When I start to plan what else will go in the memory box with her, I remember the metal dollhouse sides and suddenly, I’m planning another trip back to Missouri, where I will make the mother of memory boxes—four feet square—and I wonder how my boyfriend will react to this and what I’ll do with it when it is finished. But somehow all these practicalities do not matter, because this dolly, relegated to corners for its whole life, is finally going to get played with!!!

 

The Prompt: Antique Antics: What’s the oldest thing you own? (Toys, clothing, twinkies, Grecian urns: anything’s fair game.) Recount its history — from the object’s point of view.

 

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12 thoughts on “Daily Post: Play Date

  1. Patti

    Oh my, memories. The only doll of mine with a long pink dress that I can remember is the one I called “Madamoiselle” because she was French (how did I know that? Did she just look French?). Is that the one you found? Her appointed place was sitting against the pillows on my bed. I thought her very sophisticated. I would love to see the huge retablo made; it sounds like an art installation in a museum.

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  2. grieflessons Post author

    She was a very big doll–same size as mine…about 3 feet tall. She had on a pink formal with lace. Her arms and legs were stuffed thin rubber and her face some hard material. Yes, that’s the one…Blonde hair. I’ll take a pic.

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  3. Allenda Moriarty

    I love the bizarre look of your doll’s detached eye. All eyes will be on her when she makes her home in her new memory box. We will want to see pics!

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  4. Candace

    Brings back the memories of my dolls. I had several, a Chatty Cathy, a Betsy wettsy, Shirley temple, and an orginal Barbie, and a Ginny doll. They were very well taken care of, Hair still near perfect and clothes always repaired by my mother or much older sisters. My mother carefully packed them and stored them in an extra bedroom closet after I married and moved out. I never came back and got them. But there they were in the closet up over head, way in the back, waiting for me. I did get them when my mother and father passed away and my sisters were going thru their stuff, 20 years after I left home. I had almost forgotten about them, and was so touched at how my mother took so much care to pack them in tissue, each doll, each item of clothing. Babies swimsuit still was shinny and she was still wearing her pearl earrings. Shirley had her Heidi costume on and her eyes still twinkled and her curls still bounced. Betsy didn’t wet any more and Cathy wasn’t chatty, but both were still presentable for company. Ginny still had her twenty piece wardrobe intact, including her rain coat with matching hat, garden overalls and party dress, with gloves to match. I then took them home to be stored once again. But before they went into another closet, I did show my sons, what was mine when I was a child, but they, pre teens the time, and boys to boot, didn’t give a hoot( sorry I just had to rhyme that). Three years later, before the internet, before ebay, I took them out one more time. I needed money, I was now divorced and raising three boys with bottomless stomachs, so I called a local antique store. I took, Betsy, Cathy, Shirley, Barbie and Ginny all in their very best, and packed their clothes too. They were then sold to the lady the antique store, for $500. She could only give me that much, but said if I had time, I could put ads in collectors magazines, she was sure I’d get more. But I couldn’t wait or have extra money to place the ads. That’s been 16 years ago. Thank you Judy for your memory and mine. I hope you do make time, and the effort to make your doll into a memory box. I’m sure, just like this poem, it will bring back memories for everyone that looks at yours tof their own dolls.

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    1. grieflessons Post author

      I still have my Betsy Wetsy. Unfortunately, I must have neglected to clear out her last wetsy as her body has sort of crumbled away. Or, come to think of it, I think she was a Tiny Tears doll…she cried “real” tears.

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  5. grieflessons Post author

    Ah. A wonderful story. Thanks, Candace. I had a Jan doll–in leotard and high heels–ha. Also the closet that said Jan on one side and Jill on the other…I think Vogue brought them out as sisters or friends who could wear each other’s clothes. I also had a few of her outfits–levis and a standup collar white blouse, red clogs and a tiny coke bottle that came with the outfit. A few years ago, I used the coke bottle in a retablo. I also had her bride dress and a darling red felt flared coat with tam. I just googled Jan Doll and was reminded there was a Jeff doll as well, which I also had. Don’t know what happened to him. He predated Ken as Jan and Jill predated Barbie. So did i, although I remember my best friend’s little sister had one.
    We should get together and play dolls, Candace, or perhaps that day has passed.

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  6. Candace

    I loved your story, poem, thank you so much for sharing it with us. It’s NEVER to late to play dolls! I hear you are seeing Tony and Allenda! Give them my best! Xoxo love you and miss you lake side.

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  7. calensariel

    “…it is impossible to leave them there in the suitcase to be thrown away by someone who has no memory of them… Give them some purpose for still existing other than to fill up room in some box on some cupboard shelf…”

    Geez, Judy. This was extremely emotional for me today. Especially the part about giving them a purpose. I’ve had kind of a teary couple of days. Thank you so much for sending the link.

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  8. Pingback: Play Date | lifelessons – a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown

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