Of Dolls, Little Girls, Friends, and Life

Be forewarned. This Hub is nothing more than some of my childhood memories. Apparently, I didn't have anything more informative to write about; so rather than write about nothing, I wrote about a childhood friend and a couple of three-foot-tall dolls that taught me a few lessons about a few things.

It occurred to me that I might name this story, "Patty's and Debbie's Excellent Adventure", but I think something similar has been done already.

You know that saying they have about your life "flashing before your eyes" when you're about to die? Well, I don't know about that; but after sitting and staring at my computer screen for (oh, I don't know) about three hours and trying to think of something to write, I've discovered it appears that while our lives don't "flash before our eyes", they certainly can seem meander through our minds.

Why on Earth would I sit and stare at my computer screen without even getting up to get a cup of coffee? I'll be honest. I'm "going through a thing" these days. What that "thing" is doesn't really matter. (I'm not even sure I can figure out what it is anyway.) The point is that highlights of my life since childhood have been "flashing before my eyes" (sort of), and this one, stupid, story keeps coming to mind and making me both smile and cringe at what a couple of idiots my girlfriend and I were at seven. What have also kept cropping up have been thoughts of the handful of close girlfriends I've had over the years, but those other friends are a story for another day.

My friend, Dottie, and I were just-plain happy little girls - the kind of happy all kids ought to get to be. We both had happy, loving, families; and we were very much in our element at our neighborhood public elementary school. The first time I met Dottie we were four years old. She was allowed to walk up the street past my house (or so she would have me believe). I played behind the chain-link fence around our yard. One day a little girl with short, blond, hair stopped in front of the fence and asked me, "Why do they keep you behind the fence? Can you come out here?" I said I couldn't, because my mother wanted the gate closed. The little girl asked, "Are they EVER going to let you out?" I said, "Someday." She said, "When?" I said, "I don't know. When I'm bigger I think."

Apparently, some four-year-olds don't think to ask one another what their names are, because from that day on I became known to Dottie as "The Little Girl Behind the Fence". She became known to me as "That Little Girl Who Comes By". That was, of course, after stopping that first day, she would regularly come by to talk for awhile on her way up the street. That was until her mother figured out how far she was going on her walks, so after quite awhile she didn't come by any more.

For young children, a year or two can seem like a lifetime. So, on the first day of first grade when I sat at a table with three other girls it took the two of us awhile to put two-and-two together and figure out that we were "the little girl behind the fence" and "the little girl who comes by" from a past that seemed very distant to a couple of six-year-olds.

Even though Dottie never really seemed to quite get over the fact that I'd been kept behind a fence for "all that time", we became best friends. Dottie was the perfect doll-loving friend because I loved my dolls too. Some girls don't care about dolls. Some like them OK. Some (as Dottie and I did) see their dolls as so "real" it might actually be cause for concern if it weren't for the age of the girls.

Dottie and I were committed to our dolls. We didn't go from one doll to another. We had "doll phases", in which we'd only play with one doll for a long stretch of time. There was the "Bobby Boy and Phylis" phase (two baby dolls that were very similar to the American Girls baby of more recent years). There would eventually be the "Baby Dear" phase. My Baby Dear was "Kimberly". Dottie's, for some reason, was "Baby Dear". Dottie managed to keep her Baby Dear's hair a little better than I did, but I loved my Baby Dear in spite of her Hare Krishna hair-do that resulted when Baby Dear's hair strands pulled away from the thin strip of glue that held the hair down. Our borderline obsession with Barbie is a story for another day. The story for today is about Dottie's Patty Play Pal and my Debbie (a Patty Play Pal copycat).

As Christmas was approaching, it didn't take Dottie and me too much by way of deliberations when it came to agreeing that we were both desperately in need of the latest doll, a three-foot "life-size" doll, Patty Play Pal. This doll was advertised as a doll tall enough to be like a real friend (how pathetic, eh?). She had long, straight, hair that, of course, would be great for brushing,

I wouldn't be seeing Dottie around Christmas because of school vacation and the fact that, apparently, even Dottie's mother wouldn't let her out as much in Winter. So, we parted ways on the last day of school before Christmas, anticipating our reunion and our new "friends". How exciting THIS Christmas was going to be!

Christmas morning I got up and saw the three-foot doll standing in the living room, but it wasn't Patty Play Pal. It was "some weird Debbie doll". Even though I still believed in Santa Claus, I didn't want to disappoint my mother and father by being unhappy, when I knew they so wanted me to be happy. I secretly felt guilty about being disappointed, but I liked the fact that the doll was three-feet tall.

My mother pointed out that Patty Play Pal didn't have as pretty a face as Debbie did. She was right. Patty Play Pal (heretofore known as "Patty" because I don't want to type "Play Pal" any more here) had a big, round, "standard", vinyl-doll's face that was actually kind of "smooshed in". Debbie had a more delicate face, so she really was prettier.

For just about all my life, though, I had an ongoing difference of opinion with my mother about whether straight hair was "good" or whether "the only good hair was curly hair". My mother was from around the Shirley Temple era so, of course, she liked curly hair. It was unfortunate for my mother that both her daughters had their father's stick-straight "Patty Play Pal" hair. She thought it was unfortunate for my sister and me too, which is, I suppose, why she'd set our hair on little rubber curlers every single night, in order that we not "look like orphans". (I don't know... Maybe it was the Little Orphan Annie influence, but the Broadway show, "Annie," hadn't come out yet.) No. I think my mother just had a deep, ingrained, dislike of straight hair, and "sympathy" for little girls who hadn't been "blessed" with curly hair.

Once in awhile (for special occasions), my mother would actually do something with the curls she'd set that made me look sickeningly similar to Shirley Temple (who had been a thing of the past for decades by the time my straight hair and I showed up on the scene). Most of the time (particularly because time was of the essence on school days), my mother would just brush out the curls into the classic "frizz-ball" "do" that only a few unfortunate "losers" had to have in school. My mother used to tell us (my sister and me, because my mother was an equal-opportunity "fink" creator) that the so-called "curls" had been "cute" when we were little.

Apparently, Santa Clause shared the same admiration for curly hair that my mother did, because the strange (but - yes - pretty) Debbie doll had a giant head full of golden frizz. Debbie had the frizz that my mother only wished to make out of my fine, straight, hair.

After the initial and mild disappointment I was happy with Debbie and was ready to get to know her. Since I hadn't had any experience with any three-foot-tall dolls in the past, it turned out there were things I didn't know about a doll that big. The first one was how difficult it would be to lug Debbie around. The second was that if I didn't pick her up just right her giant, frizz-head, would fall off; exposing the fact that what made Debbie so bloody heavy was some kind of stuffing packed inside her head. I don't know... Maybe the doll company wanted the doll to be as heavy as real girls too?

After the shock of having Debbie's head go rolling across the floor, but having my father ever-so-quickly got the head back on; I learned a third thing about a doll that big: You shouldn't try to pick her up by the arms. I was a very small seven-year-old, so maybe the whole Debbie-thing was a bigger problem for me than for other girls my age, but how on Earth was I supposed to pick up this giant, stuffed-headed, doll if I didn't try to lift her by the upper arms. When I did Debbie's left arm broke off a few inches down from where it was fastened at the shoulder.

I was horrified, and my crying reflected it. In my head, I was secretly thinking about how I hadn't been completely delighted to see Debbie for the first time, so I was feeling guilty. That pretty face of hers looked so cheerful and nice and innocent. How on Earth could I have been such a monster as to have broken her arm on Christmas morning?!!

Ever the fixer-of-all-things, my father said he'd try to see if he could glue the arm back on. Well, Debbie was made of hard vinyl. My father told me he didn't know if the epoxy he was going to try would hold Debbie's arm, so off Debbie went into "surgery" as I waited anxiously. After awhile my father brought Debbie back with her arm taped. He said he'd glued the arm but we had to wait to see if it would hold. I was hopeful but still sad (maybe even still crying). My mother got a toddler cardigan sweater from somewhere in the house and told me to put the sweater on Debbie and try not to think about the arm. (Maybe that's when I learned the fine art of not thinking about stuff that's going to make you cry.) Here was my new friend on Christmas, and what had I done? First not really loved her, later let her head fall off, and topped it all off by breaking her arm!

So, with her nice, starched, blue-cotton, dress covered up with a used toddler sweater, Debbie and I bonded once the initial horror of our bad start had passed. I awaited word about whether the repair job would hold. Unfortunately, it didn't. My father "tried something else", and I waited another day. Again, it didn't hold. I remember my father's words to this day, "All I can do is tape it up really well. It will hold the arm on, but you can't lift her by the arms any more. She'll just have to wear long sleeves or else you have to just not worry about the tape." The tape didn't hold Debbie's arm firmly and in a way that her arm would stick straight out the way dolls' arms usually did in those days. Instead, the tape held the arm loosely, with the likelihood that the weight of it would make it fall out of the "tape affair" around it.

My father showed me how to tuck the sweater arm into the pocket, so Debbie's limp arm would be less likely to fall off. Since I'd learned that letting a doll that big "wear real three-year-olds' clothes" wasn't as do-able as the TV commercials had led me to believe, I just let Debbie wear the sweater over her pretty dress "for the rest of time" for the most part. Occasionally, I'd let Debbie wear slacks with her trusty sweater/sling. It didn't take long for me to realize that Debbie's "problem" wasn't that big of a deal after all. I loved her; and looking back, I realize that learning that young how to take care of a "child" with a "special need" wasn't such a bad thing (even if I would eventually have children fortunate enough to have no disabilities). Debbie's arm and "sweater arrangement" did, after all, require the occasional adjustment.

Dottie had gotten Patty for Christmas, and it didn't take long for Dottie to accept that Debbie was as she was, and it made no difference to either of us. This began the "Patty and Debbie" phase for us and - oh boy - we had so many great afternoons planning activities for our "children". We didn't just play with dolls. We planned what "we'd all" be doing the next day. I don't know how many birthday parties each doll had, but when a party was scheduled for the following day, that meant we'd spend our evening making gifts and birthday cards for the whichever doll was going to have a party. Sometimes we'd just let Patty and Debbie sit and watch as we played other things, but they were never far away. Since lugging either of them anywhere required a good, sturdy, doll carriage; these two "three-year-olds" never walked anywhere - ever. They were such giant dolls they were kind of awkward in the carriages too, but it was only way to get them from one house to the other. Once or twice Dottie did comment on how "they're kind of big", but that didn't stop us from being obsessed with them.

One day Dottie and I were talking and, almost simultaneously, we came up with the bright idea of bringing Patty and Debbie to school with us the next day. This was an old fashioned school in the 1960's, so it wasn't like kids were allowed to bring toys to school - ever. For Dottie and me, though, school was something with which we were so comfortable, and that we so loved, it didn't seem at all odd to want to share school with Patty and Debbie. Nutty as this sounds now, we actually thought we'd be giving Patty and Debbie a nice "field trip" to the school. We were excited about this whole plan, and we spent the whole afternoon talking about how we'd need the carriages and need to pack lunches (and snacks) for Patty and Debbie. We planned outfits for them. Debbie would need her sweater, of course, but she could wear corduroy pants and a shirt, because it was still cold out. We walked to school, and we knew Patty and Debbie shouldn't be cold on their ride to school. Dottie and I thought of everything. We needed to plan, too, how we'd get our parents to take our carriages down the front stairs early enough for us to get to school on time.

That evening I asked my father if he'd put the doll carriage down on the walk in the morning. I told my parents that Dottie and I would be bringing the dolls to school. My mother sounded doubtful and asked, "Are you sure that's OK? Did Ms. Swanson say you could?" I, of course, assured her it was fine and that "everyone was bringing their three-foot-tall dolls to school" the following day.

This was SO exciting. I got up early the next day in order to pack whatever Debbie would need nto the carriage. The plan was that I'd leave my house first, go by Dottie's house to meet her and Patty, and from there we'd head off to school together.

As we ran into other kids on their way to school they seemed completely baffled by the fact that the two of us were bringing these monster-sized dolls, in their carriages, to school. This wasn't a term people used in those days, but the attitude of the kids (who were as doubtful as my mother had been) seemed to be, "whatever...." ). Dottie and I discussed the fact that our mothers weren't too sure about this whole thing, but we both honestly believed it was OK. ("Why wouldn't it be?" After all, school was "our place". Patty and Debbie were "ours". Who on Earth would object to letting Patty and Debbie see what real school was like?

(Fruitcakes that we were) Dottie and I happily and proudly pushed the giant dolls up to the back door of the school (no stairs and the door we always went in anyway). We were met by the janitor, who had a reputation for being "an old grouch". He told us we couldn't bring the dolls into the school. Dottie looked at me and said, "See? I knew we shouldn't bring them." (No, she didn't. I guess she was trying to cover herself by acting like she had no part of it the whole plan. "What a traitor!" I thought.)

We tried to explain to the janitor that we couldn't leave Patty and Debbie out in the cold, but it wasn't long before Dottie and I were both crying. The janitor sent for the second-grade teacher, who was aghast (!!) that we'd brought our "children" to school. She wasn't just aghast. She was angry (because she was a grouchy woman to begin with) and disgusted. It was a whole big discussion between the teacher and other teachers, as the janitor waited and Dottie and I continued to be at least on the verge of tears. Our teacher, in her disgusted tone, said, "You can bring them in, but you'll have to put them in the basement." Dottie and I stopped crying, but we weren't happy. The basement in that old school had a boiler (or on an oil burner or something) in it. It was dark and not at all pleasant. Debbie and Patty were going to be scared in that basement. As grouchy as she was, the second-grade teacher told Dottie and me that we could visit Patty and Debbie for a minute before recess.

The school day went on as usual, but Dottie and I had the gnawing worry about our beloved dolls being in that dark basement by themselves. We couldn't wait for the bell to ring, so we could get Debbie and Patty the hell out of there. We were humiliated that we'd done something that was "apparently so wrong". We just wanted the day to end.

Just as the day was about to end the teacher told Dottie and me she wanted us to stay after because we'd brought the dolls to school. She told us the dolls would "just have to stay there overnight" because the janitor would be leaving before we would be. This, of course, set off a whole new round of crying for Dottie and me, as we imagined leaving our "children" ANYWHERE overnight, let alone the empty school building. Disgusted, the teacher told us we could go, get the dolls, and NEVER EVER bring them back to school again.

Dottie and I still didn't really "get" what we'd done that was so wrong. We just thought the teachers had been "ridiculous" about their reaction to the whole thing.

Patty and Debbie got baby sisters the following Christmas. The Christmas after that they got toddler sisters (Saucy Walkers, who were two-and-a-half feet high and said to be the size of a real two-year-old). Dottie's and my families had grown, but it wasn't long after that that we would enter our Barbie-obsession phase, which brought us to the time when we'd outgrown playing with dolls.

My family moved an hour away when we were in seventh grade, so Dottie and I planned to stay in touch with overnight visits when they could be arranged (thanks to my father, because Dottie's father didn't have a car). We vowed we'd get to hang out more once we were sixteen and could drive. Dottie got married young (19), and I was in her wedding. Five or so years after that, she called me to tell me she'd bought a house in the town next to where I was living.

We had two children who were about the same age (I had a third later). As often happens, we didn't have time to see each other all that often, but we kept in touch over the phone and visited occasionally. It's been a few years now since I've talked to her. The last time we talked I learned that both her parents had passed away. She learned I'd lost my mother. She'd split up with her husband after many years. She'd already known that I'd split up with mine.

It turns out that she still owns the house she grew up in, and her son is now living in it to keep it up. She invited me to spend an afternoon there one day, and we talked about how we could go sit out in the backyard, where we'd played Barbie and where Patty and Debbie had had so many birthday parties and picnics. We talked about how we could walk by the house where I'd lived and just kind of pay a visit to the past for a few hours. We laughed hysterically about what a couple of idiots we'd been for taking Patty and Debbie to school that day. We laughed about so many things, and Dottie said, more than once, how nice it would be to spend an afternoon in the yard where we'd played. I said it would a nice idea, but I never really followed up on setting up a definite date. While Dottie may be used to being at that house, I wasn't sure I was really ready to be "confronted" by my own happy childhood in quite such an up-close-and-personal way.

If there was one thing I'd learned from that whole Patty-and-Debbie "incident", it was that sometimes things that "seem like a good idea at the time" aren't. Doors get locked after a certain time if you stay too late. Treasured friends often get left behind, one way or another. Dolls stop being real and instead turn into empty-eyed characters sitting lifeless in the corner of a guest-room, poignant reminders of how life moves on.