Free Ugly Doll

Recently, I chose to do something very emotionally difficult. I chose to give away a doll which my daughter received as a gift when she was four. The fact that I—not my daughter--still had Lori Walker 30-something years later attests to my emotional attachment to this worse-for-the-wear doll. Her hair had become ratty, her plastic skin a bit dirty. People who walked into the room where she stayed became startled until they realized that they were seeing an Ugly Doll, not some abandoned toddler.

I advertised a “Free, Ugly Doll” on Craigslist, expecting that I might get interest from someone wanting to adopt Lori to give to a little girl. However, an adult woman answered my ad, saying that she lived with a doll similar to Lori named Harriet. Lori and Harriet could become best friends. Later, Lori’s new “mom” sent me a picture of a very happy Lori in her new home.

Lori became important to me in adulthood. As my daughter grew, Lori represented her receding childhood. My forward-looking daughter, however, breathed a sigh of relief when I informed her that I had adopted out Lori Walker instead of foisting her off on my daughter. For some reason, I wanted Lori to be as important to my daughter as she was to me. I had to accept that that kind of bond between my daughter and Lori simply did not exist.

Giving Lori up for adoption inspired me to reminisce about dolls important to me in my childhood and important to me a second time in adult memory, like a belch after a really tasty meal.  I thought of how important dolls are to humans. Dolls have been around about as long as babies have. According to the web site, “History of Dolls,” archeologists found dolls in Egyptian tombs as far back as 2000 BC.

My most favorite doll was a toddler-sized cloth doll. She had a plastic face with white hair that looked like she had been shocked, so I named her Phyllis Diller after the comedienne, whom I adored. Phyllis-the-doll had elastic bands on her feet so I could strap her feet to mine and walk with her. I wish I still had Phyllis Diller.

Another memorable doll from my childhood is Barbie, of course. One day, I decided to cut Barbie’s long hair into a bob. Imagine my dismay when Barbie ended up with a huge bald spot, as the hair strands were attached around the circle of her skull only. It was a hard lesson in my young life about appearance vs. reality. Every child who ever had a Barbie has some sort of weird Barbie story.

 Lori Walker pre-adoption.

Lori Walker post-adoption.

Phyllis Diller (with my father holding her up).

In the spirit of the storytelling aspect of “Be-Lied,” I follow this entry with a story about dolls, “Our Secret Dolls.”

Our Secret Dolls

This story, which may or may not be “true” in that it may or may not have actually happened, is the companion piece to the blog, “Free Ugly Doll.”

Many years ago, I attended a rather intense weekend conference on Educational Leadership. We convened Friday night after most of us had spent the day in the classroom and then traveled to the conference site. On Saturday we had back-to-back sessions all day. We finished the weekend with a half-day of wrap-up meetings after breakfast Sunday. Most of us would be back in the classroom bright and early Monday morning.

Saturday night after supper, many of us met in one of our rooms to smooth out our frazzle over wine. We discussed the intensity of the meetings and bemoaned the fact that we would need to bring our suitcases with us to breakfast in order to head home after the morning meeting. As we relaxed, someone mentioned, in the context of packing, that she always traveled with a doll she had received in adolescence—a Raggedy Ann which her grandfather had given her on her sweet 16^th birthday to remind her to always keep a bit of her inner child alive. Her grandfather did not live to see her 17^th birthday. Since that time, Raggedy Ann traveled everywhere with her.

We began sending sideways glances and shifting in our seats. The occupant of the room went to a drawer and pulled out a small, generic baby doll. He admitted to traveling with this doll which he had received as a holiday gift as a child. His grandmother had given him a gun and his female cousin a doll. His parents did not want him receiving guns because they were pacifists. Her parents did not want her receiving a stereotypically female gift. So the two families exchanged gifts—he got the doll and she got the gun.

With the wine, the admissions began to flow. Come to find out, most of us traveled with secret dolls or stuffed animals—our comfort and courage companions. I admitted to traveling with a small moose which I “adopted” on a camping trip through Canada. Heading back into the States, I saw “Thursby” in a store window in Sault Saint Marie, Canada. The shop was closed for the day. I wanted “Thursby” badly enough that I spent an unplanned night in Canada so I could bring the migrant moose back to the States with me. Since that time, Thursby has traveled extensively with me. In addition, he sat with me when I took my doctoral preliminary exams and my teacher certification exams.

Another told of her Cabbage Patch doll, Molly. Her mother, was not “crafty,” in that she had no talent for knitting, sewing, or crocheting, while her grandmother could make anything out of anything. Her mother, however, managed to make this Cabbage Patch doll, a proud accomplishment.

The next morning, we met groggily for breakfast. I propped my suitcase against the wall, pulled out Thursby, and set him on top. My companions from the previous night’s discussion likewise propped their secret dolls on top of their luggage. When other participants saw what we had done, many of them pulled their own secret dolls from their luggage, as well. The weekend had been grueling, but we brought home with us an unexpected lesson in human nature.