The family spent two weeks at the lake in Vermont every summer. My mother wasn’t a fan. Of living in someone else’s rental house. Of brushing her teeth with bottled water. Of eating off of someone else’s dishes.
My father made it palatable to her by inviting all her relatives to stop on by. And, many did.
One Uncle would travel up every year and only stay for a few days. For all I know my mother had a chart showing that she only had a bed available from the second Wednesday until Friday afternoon. I wouldn’t put it past her.
He usually brought a stray distant relation with him. To keep him company in the car he would say. I always found his choices in traveling companions to be very strange indeed.
One August I was introduced to a distant relation that I remembered slightly from early childhood. This one had taken my Easter Basket and had eaten his fill of all the chocolate when I was eight years old. He had left the big shiny marshmallow eggs for me.
I had caught him with his fingers and mouth covered in my chocolate. He had exclaimed with a grin that he knew I loved to share. And, after all he had left the marshmallows for me. As they were my favorites!
I hate marshmallow.
So, I wasn’t excited to see him get out of the car years later. He put his hands on his sixteen year old hips and checked out my lake. He wasn’t impressed. He stretched and touched his toes after the long car ride.
I wasn’t impressed.
The freckles were still there. The big Tom Sawyer grin was still in place. He had a teenaged swagger. He wore his designer jeans well. He picked up my hand and renewed our acquaintance.
He kissed the back of my hand and whispered my name.
I was supposed to swoon.
Instead he got “Oh, just cut the shit.” out of me.
I kept my eye on him for days. He cheated at cards. He stuffed his pockets with nickel plastic poker chips that he hadn’t paid for. I found him nosing around my parent’s bedroom. Wallets and purses just lie around as if they were on vacation too. He scoped out their placement.
I was vigilant. But, it became too much for me. I started snapping at him verbally during family dinners. I was hushed and shushed and sent to my room for being rude.
I felt like my eyes were wide open but the others were totally blind. Especially the adults. They had fallen for his bright wide smile and his ‘Aw, shucks, did I do that?” attitude. I could not believe how naïve every one around me was being.
I tackled my beloved Uncle first. He had after all brought this misfit into our midst.
I sat next to him on the wooden steps that looked out over the lake. We did this every year. We always started with silence. Uncle would wait for me to talk. This year I didn’t.
“Well, Little Girl. Something’s on your mind this time. Do you want me to pry it out of you? Not my style but I can give it a shot.” said my Uncle.
“Don’t you see past the freckles and the big white smile? Can’t you see past the swagger and the jokes? Can’t you see that he’ll rob you blind if you turn your back?” I whispered.
We both knew who I was talking about.
“Whatever I own he can have.” he whispered back.
I was confused.
“Why?” I said louder than I meant to.
“Because, I love him. And, he must need it.” he answered as he looked out towards some kids fishing off the end of a dock.
“He’s a thief!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right. But, he can’t steal when something is offered to him outright. Can he? I’ve told him time after time……………whatever is mine is yours. And, I think that’s all he needed to hear.” my gentle Uncle said as he looked me in the face.
He turned and took my face in his hands. He laid his cool lips against my forehead. And, he kissed me.
I didn’t understand his words but I understood his gesture. It told me that he loved me. And, that he realized that I didn’t comprehend.
I warned my father to put his car keys away in his dresser drawer. I told him that someone had their eyes on them.
“That’s okay, Little Girl. The car is all gassed up.” he replied.
What?
My mother cut up a cake that I had spent hours making. I had split it into four layers and used a whole jar of raspberry jam. The frosting had come out great despite the summer humidity.
She gave the miscreant the biggest piece. She messed up his hair as he dug in. She laughed and gave him a big bear hug from behind.
She winked at me and I rolled my eyes at her in return.
Wednesday turned into Friday and my Uncle and his guest prepared to leave. Wallets and purses appeared to be intact. My father’s car still rested on the grass under the tree.
A freckled faced boy threw his arms around every one but me to say goodbye.
He paused in front of me before he got into the car for the long ride home.
He leaned into me and whispered into my ear. “I’m sorry I ate all your chocolate that Easter. Would it make you feel any better to know that I got sick as a dog?”
“No, that doesn’t make me feel any better. I’m sorry you got sick. You could have had as much of my chocolate as you wanted. All you had to do was ask.” I said quietly.
“I know that now.” he said as he got into the passenger side.
My Uncle smiled at me from the driver’s seat. He gave me a big wink as he drove off.
I loved dolls as a little girl. My Christmas Wish List was full of dolls, carriages, doll clothes and household items.
I remember getting a plastic dish washer one Christmas. Yes, it really worked.
I bought my three year old daughter a Cabbage Patch doll when they were all the rage. I wasn’t under any pressure to find one when they were in short supply and high demand because she was too young to know what they were.
I was in Bradlees when two security guards stood next to two empty pallets. They stood at attention with their hands clutched behind their backs. Their walkie talkies were screeching.
“They’re on their way. Be forewarned. They are on their way.” crackled the walkie talkie.
“We’re ready. Over.” said one security guard.
I was in the toy section checking out a wind up baby doll that played a lullabye. It reminded me of one that Santa brought me when I was tiny. I had opened the box to sniff deeply of the sweet new rubber.
I put it down and watched the security guards.
What the heck is going on?
Fork lifts beeped down the aisle with two more security guards at each side. Either the Queen was about to make a visit via fork lift……………or those cartons contained Cabbage Patch dolls!
The boxes were delivered and the fork lifts beeped their way out of the aisle.
“What’s the all the commotion, guys?” I asked the men in blue.
“Cabbage Patch Dolls, Ma’am. We’ve been warned to expect a stampede.” said an 18 year old security guard. He looked left and right. He was expecting to be tackled by an angry Christmas mob.
I was the only one there.
The cartons had been cut at an angle. Each one contained eight Cabbage Patch Dolls. I walked around the pallets to peruse them all. The security guards stiffened up as I passed. A few other women were now sniffing around. They probably had no little girl on their Christmas list. But, they were going to buy two each anyways.
I lived in a town that was 100 % Caucasian at the time. All of these Cabbage Patch dolls were African Americans. One lady sniffed and continued on her way.
“Okay, guys. I’m looking for pig tails. I’m thinking blue dress. What do you see in your cartons?” I asked.
The security guards started carton diving. The young one came up with Suzie. She was a beauty. She had yarn hair in two thick braids. She wore a blue dress with a little gingham apron. She was proud. She was smart and she was looking for a forever home.
My three year old didn’t even know what a Cabbage Patch Doll was. She didn’t know she wanted one. But, she fell in love with her. Suzie went every where with us.
My little girl is 34 years old now. She’s moved many times. The last move forced her to downsize all of her belongings. But, Suzie? She still lives on a shelf in her living room.
You just don’t abandon your baby because your apartment is small.
I tried to teach my children “It’s better to give than to receive” from the time they were little kids. And, what better time than at Christmas.
As a child I had a paper route. The tips came flowing at me at Christmas. I didn’t spend it on myself. I was proud that at age ten I could afford to go to Grants and pick out gifts for my whole family. I spent money I had earned myself. There is no better feeling for a ten year old.
Times change and my own children didn’t have the opportunity to make their own money at that age.
Jamesway Department store had artificial trees full of names at the holiday season. Each of my children would pick a name, gender and age close to their own. They would look at the paper ornament with a wish list on it.
They would grin from ear to ear and go shopping for a child they didn’t know. They would never know. Someone that wouldn’t be able to thank them. They were filled with joy choosing toys and apparel for kids that Santa needed help providing for. Every year they asked when they could do it again.
It’s a good feeling and I’m glad they felt it.
Time goes by. My days of dolls are long gone. My own daughter didn’t have much use for dolls besides Suzie. Suzie was just family. Otherwise, don’t waste your money on dolls Mom, she would say.
The kids are grown up. My son appreciates clothing from certain stores. He must have his book of Lifesaver Candy. At age 31.
My daughter has nicely supplied me with her Christmas Wish List. “I haven’t any room for more stuff, Mom. Money is nice.” she says at age 34.
I hadn’t been in a toy aisle in twenty years. That’s sad at Christmas.
Then my husband saved Christmas.
He came home with a receipt. He had donated $25 at work for Give A Child A Christmas.
“Here, do you have an envelope or something for tax receipts?” he asked.
He explained what it was. He told me that his department tried to collect enough money to give Christmas to many children.
“I want one of my own.” I said as I filed his receipt.
“One what?” he asked.
“I will do all the shopping for one child. Bring me home a form. We’re going to shop for one child this year. Try to make it a girl. I don’t know much about boy toys anymore.” I said.
So, he did.
The first year it was a 13 year old girl. I almost went into a panic. She wanted clothing. And boots. And a tee shirt with her favorite boy band that I’d never heard of on it.
I pictured a 13 year old girl opening up a fuzzy pink sweater on Christmas Day.
“I hate it, I hate it! Why was I ever born!” she screeched as she ran to her room in tears and slammed the door.
I called my daughter. She’s much cooler than I am.
“Where do I shop for a 13 year old girl? I need to buy clothing that she’ll like. I need help. I’ll dress her like her grandmother without help. Oh, dear Lord. What have I gotten myself into?” I wailed over the telephone line.
She went online and told me that my local mall had a store called Justice. It was chock block full of clothing for girls that age. It was the “cool” place to shop.
“Calm down, Ma. Breathe! It’s going to be okay.” she said all the way from Oregon.
I took my list of sizes into that store. I told the manager what I was up to. The money was almost all spent when I got to the boots. I didn’t want to go over budget because I knew there were other children in this family being shopped for. One shouldn’t get more than the other.
The manager put a pair of Ugg like boots in my hands.
“These. These boots are all the rage. Especially from this store. The girl will pet them. She’ll name them. She will thank Santa for them every day this winter.” she explained.
“But, these will put me way over budget.” I moaned.
“Oh, no they won’t. As the manager I can use my 30% off card twice a day. With the State of NY tax you’ll be right on budget. It would be my honor to use my 30% off today for Give A Child A Christmas.”
And, so she did. And she felt great about it.
The next year my husband brought home the name of a 3 year old girl. She was needing a new winter coat and boots. And she was in love with Doc McStuffin. Who? What? I thought I’d do all my shopping at Target online and get it delivered to the door.
Except, everything Doc McStuffin was already sold out.
In November.
Good old Ebay. I finally found a rag doll Doc McStuffin. All the other things were for age five and up. I didn’t want some little unknown girl choking on small toy pieces because of me. I set my alarm clock and swooped on that auction at 3 am. Bingo! Victorious!
Hey, I had lived through the Cabbage Patch Wars! I wasn’t hesitant about smacking down an opponent with my big Paypal account in the middle of the night to win a Doc doll.
I imagine those parents opening that box from Give A Child A Christmas.
“This must really, really be from Santa, honey. We all know that Doc McStuffin rag dolls are impossible to find!” they exclaimed while wrapping that doll up to put under the tree.
This year my husband was told to bring home another three year old girl to buy for.
Instead he heard age 7.
I don’t know why. That’s what he heard.
I looked at the print out this morning.
“Lucy is 7 years old. She wears a girls size 8. She is into Shopkins, Frozen and she would like a fake American Girl Doll.” I read.
What?
I read it again.
“I brought that one home for you because she wants an American Girl Doll.” my husband said. My husband who leaves all the shopping to me. He smiles and pats me on the back and pays the Visa Bill.
“What the hell!” I exclaimed. This was supposed to be easy. Now, what was I supposed to do with a fake American Girl Doll and $150 budget to make a kid’s dreams come true at Christmas.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
“A seven year old girl wants an American Girl Doll. They go for hundreds of dollars.” I said. “Does she dream about the early American doll? The Indian doll? The Swedish doll? Or, the ones that supposedly look just like you? Oh, my God.” I gasped as I sat in my computer chair.
“Well, I saw that she wanted a “fake” American girl doll. I figured you’d be the person to figure that one out. As I know you love dolls. You write lots of stories about your dolls when growing up. Oh, boy, if this is a problem I’ll bring that paper back and switch it.” he said with a worried tone.
“No, don’t do that. I’m the right person to figure this one out.” I replied.
My husband knows a teensy bit about American Girl Dolls. He remembers me trying to talk my daughter into wanting one when she was ten. She didn’t. It hurt me deep in my soul.
About five years ago I was thinking about that. How I tried to talk my daughter into asking for Kirsten the Swedish American Girl Doll. My maiden name was Anderson. My grandparents were of Swedish descent. My grandfather was born in Sweden. My grandmother was born in New Sweden , Maine. Her parents were still learning the English language when she was born.
That doll was crazy pricey when my daughter was small. I was willing to order it from Santa anyways. She said no. Don’t go buying me any dolls. I was defeated.
Then five years ago my husband started bullying me for my Christmas list like he does every year. I have a hard time writing a Christmas list. I kind of buy what I need when I need it. I’m not a fashionista. I have to try clothing on. I’m hard to buy for according to him.
Like the year he bought me an expensive yellow cashmere sweater.
“I looked in your closet and noticed you didn’t own anything yellow. So, I bought you this.” he said proudly.
The reason there is nothing yellow in my closet? Because, when I wear yellow I look like a cadaver. I smiled and wore it anyways.
He was behind me on his computer and he badgered me for a Christmas list a few years ago. The Swedish American Girl Doll flashed into my head.
I went on Ebay and started poking around. This doll was no longer sold. She was now a collector’s item. I found one dressed in the Swedish St. Lucia Christmas outfit. She was out of the box but in excellent condition. The price tag was phenomenal for a doll.
“Here, you go, Honey. This is all I want for Christmas.” I said.
He wheeled around on his computer chair. He took a look over my shoulder. His chin hit his shoulder.
“Are you kidding me?” he asked. “Tell me you’re kidding me. You want a doll that costs hundreds of dollars. A doll. A doll?”
“Yup.” I said as I walked out of the room. “Just hit that Buy It Now button to make all my Christmas dreams come true. And, the tag better say “from Santa.”
Now, five years later comes the pay back. He brings me home a seven year old girl that wants lots of things including a “fake” American Girl doll.
I will not be defeated.
I go online. I go to the American Girl web page. The dolls that I knew and loved when my daughter was small no longer exist. They are collectibles now. No longer made. In their place are dolls that would never have captured my imagination. I guess I’m a big fan of immigrant dolls.
What I need to know is that they are “18 inches tall. I can work with that.
I go to Google. I input Fake American Girl Dolls. I am sent right to Walmart. They have their own line of dolls. I read the reviews. They’re well made and well received by little girls all over the country.
I’m not a Walmart shopper. But, I find myself in their toy department a few hours later. I could have ordered this online. But, I need to have it in my hand. I need to sniff it.
The dolls fill an aisle. I share the aisle with a little girl intent on filling out her doll’s wardrobe. I asked the little girl if she knows anything about American Girl Dolls.
She sniffs in disgust.
“Who can afford those?” she says. “The closest one here is the one that is dressed to go to school. It’s all about that plaid skirt and the book bag.”
I put that doll into my cart.
“Actually, I own an American Girl Doll. I have the Swedish girl, Kirsten? She wears the St. Lucia Swedish Christmas crown. She is really beautiful. She is in my bedroom during the year. But, at Christmas she comes downstairs and sits under the Christmas Tree.” I explained to the young doll lover.
“You do? That’s a collectible. That doll is from the 80’s. Who gave you that doll?” she wanted to know.
“Santa.” I said.
“Yup. Santa. Knew it. It had to be Santa. Who else would be able to give you that doll?” she said with wonder in her voice.
“Santa is the coolest.” she exclaimed.
“Yes, he sure is.” I replied.
So, if you want the spirit of Christmas to grab you again at your age?
growinguponcolumbusstreet 