Bent over together,
she and doll could
resume friendship
By Gloria T. Delamar
Patsy came into my care when I was about 7.
The doll was as big as a toddler, with a chubby cloth-filled body, and plaster arms and legs. Her brown hair came to her shoulders, ending in a slight upcurl.
She became my dear friend and constant companion.
When I went into the hospital with pleurisy, Patsy went with me, and stayed the night. The nurses took her pulse when they took mine, declaring her to be in good health.
Her clothes came from the baby and toddler department. She looked particularly fetching in her blue taffeta dress — the same shade as mine. Among my favorites for her to wear was a hand-crocheted dress I had worn as a toddler myself, with little booties to match.
Birthday on Christmas
There was always a spot for her under the tree on Christmas, which was her birthday. On her 1st birthday, an orange wicker carriage magically appeared for her on Christmas morning. There were even times when she cradled a new Christmas doll in her arms.
But these were merely temporary playmates; no other doll could replace Patsy in my heart.
As I got older, Patsy spent more time alone, sitting in the corner of my bedroom. She made a dramatic appearance on high school "senior day" when seniors could wear anything. I wore a long pink granny nightgown over my jeans, and carried Patsy, who was wearing a white cotton nightgown, which my classmates autographed.
When my own daughters arrived, Patsy was part of playtime for special occasions, an honored guest at Christmas in remembrance of the day she'd come into my own life. At one stage, one of my daughters and Patsy looked like twins — it was eerie, but we have the photographs to prove it.
Open the satchel?
At our last move, Patsy was consigned to a big tan leather satchel, folded at the hip to fit. What still remained of her wardrobe was filled in around her, including the autographed nightgown. With our girls past doll-stage, the satchel was stashed in the attic.
Over the 30 years since, I've thought of her periodically, always planning to unpack her.
But now, I'm afraid to open that satchel. I can't bring myself to face the condition she might be in, folded up for 30 years. What if she's moth-eaten? Could I bear it?
She must be permanently bent over by now. At the least, she must show her age. But then, so do I. Maybe it's time for us to be reunited. We could spend the rest of our days bent over together, in granny gowns.
Should we? Oh, should we?
Maybe it's time.