The Secret Lives of Dolls

My sister and I (who were only 14 months apart) were the oldest grandchildren on my mom's side of the family (she also being the oldest of her sisters) and we won't be followed by any more grandchildren for 9 years. Growing up, we were showered with gifts from our unmarried aunts, mostly girlie gifts; Barbie, with all her accessories and boyfriend, proper baby dolls, ballerina tutus and our most favorite of all, a doll house filled with tiny 5 inch tall dolls and all their wing-back chairs, 4-poster beds, cooper cooking pots, and minute bottles of "spices".

The doll house was built by my mom from a kit when we were 3 and 2 respectively and looked like the standard Colonial house of the suburbs of DC where we lived, only one half was 3 stories and the other only 2. I, being the oldest, got the tall half as mine and Patricia's half was the short one. My mom says Patricia used to sit on the top floor of her house, but somehow it held up through all those years and I still have it gathering dust on the top shelf of a closet none the worse for the wear except a missing pillar from the side porch.

The dolls didn't come until several years later when my mom found them at a consignment store. "Dawn" dolls were already discontinued when she bought our first ones, but they must have been made quite prolifically in their heyday since you can still buy them on eBay for under $10. I think Patricia and I fell in love with the first dolls we had - a petite girl doll for each of us.

I don't remember what Patricia's first doll's name was or what she looked like, but I remember mine had bright red hair and a flamboyant canary yellow dress and I called her "Little Yellow". These two dolls didn't survive our constant usage and whether because of damage or loss, we soon had new ones. Black-haired Emerald came on my 6th birthday and later I would save my money to buy the coveted boy doll, Paul (whose arms became immovably fixed with hot glue after a skydiving accident in the back yard). Eventually, there would be a second Little Yellow.

It was Little Yellow, Emerald, Lily, Rose and later Mrs. McAllister who would channel our childhood frustrations and say the things that we wanted to say to the world, but couldn't about the changes taking place in our young lives.

Little Yellow lived in the attic of the doll house, she was the black sheep in a family of sisters: the eldest Emerald, creative Violet (one of Patricia's dolls), naughty adolescent Rose, sickly Lily and the aunt (and sometime guardian) Mrs. McAllister. Her favorite phrases were "No one loves me" (said in a very dramatic voice) and "My life is miserable" (also in the same voice). She felt neglected by her large family who considered her an ungrateful hussy and Little Yellow did nothing to change that image by putting salt in the morning oatmeal and sneaking out of the house go to dance halls in the middle of the night. She was also told frequently by Mrs. McAllister to "Stop COMPLAINING!" (said in our best stern voices). Perhaps the real cause of her woe was the somehow half of her red hair had fallen out and she had a large bald spot that would have tempted most real women to despair.

Little Yellow's attitude perhaps reflected, not what we felt necessarily, but rather what we heard from others around us and struggled to understand; the despair and struggle of a single mom trying to raise two young girls. Mrs. McAllister and even Emerald at times with their responsible, no nonsense attitudes acted out the structured lives we wished for with a streak of a New England poverty to comfortable middle-class inheritance thrown in. Rose, a small non-"Dawn" doll, who told atrocious lies and was given "truth pills" (imaginary pills that force the taker to tell the truth when asked) by Paul somehow mirrored a longing for simple truth to be said situations of confusion and hurt.

And yet, despite complex games played out almost everyday in the doll house, we still managed to be children. We laughed ourselves silly over "Little Yellow was snoring like an engine in a tin roundhouse", gave Mrs. McAllister an imaginary husband named "T-bert" whom she would often talk to out loud, begged our mom not to let Little Yellow called herself "Ginger Ale" (mom always came up with the most creative names) and sent Mrs. McAllister on magic carpet rides courtesy of her side business, "Rent-A-Rug".

Even now, just the mention of long unsaid names can bring gales of laughter between my sister and I, especially in a tense or inappropriate moment.