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A Boy and a Doll

Writer's picture: Marcia Edwina Herman-GiddensMarcia Edwina Herman-Giddens

 

Last week I awakened from the seizings and stumblings and somersaults of my sleeping mind with the name of a young boy tumbling in my thoughts. The reasons I would remember the name of such a person would not let go, so after several days of a relentless inner demand to tell the story, I succumbed and here it is.

    Along with the memory of the second grade event that involved that boy growing as clear and full of emotion as when it happened, there was also a vision of the desks the little boy and I and the rest of the children sat in at Lakeview School in Birmingham, Alabama in 1948. The old wooden desks were bolted to the floor. Their indelible character comprised the needs and effects of occupancy by generations of second graders: the groove to keep the pencil or pen from rolling down the slight incline, carvings from little fingers wielding pocketknives, inkwells, and wads of dried out gum stuck under surfaces.

As for the inkwells which waited patiently for bottles of ink, by then we were learning to write with a real ink pen, at first the wooden type into which one fitted a nib into the slot at the pen's base. In the third grade we graduated to the kind with the lever to squeeze the rubber bladder inside the barrel which with a slow extension sucked the ink into the rubber contrivance. With the wooden pen, one dipped the nib in the ink and tried to coordinate the other actions required for writing without making a mess. That and the resultant problems is another story.


 

Every Christmas season, each classroom in our grammar school had a party which included gift giving. For any of the other parties, I have no detailed memories about my part in the giving or who had drawn my name. Nor do I remember whose name I would have drawn a few weeks prior this particular year. Neither do I remember how Melton, this boy I scarcely knew, presented me with his gift. I don’t remember unwrapping it. But, oh, how I remember gazing on it when I had it fully exposed: a small doll with delicate elaborate clothing, big blue eyes, a rosebud mouth, and tumbling blonde hair. I knew right away the clothes were hand-stitched because I could see how the in and out of a threaded needle attached the crocheted lace onto the fabric, the satin ribbons to the bonnet and cape, and created the hems and edges. When I laid her down her eyes shut (and they still do). She was not quite six inches tall.

I see myself sitting on the hard wood seat of my desk holding the little doll in wonder and amazement, I feel myself taking a big breath. The other children were getting simple toys or coloring books. How was I getting this special treasure? What circumstances made this happen? I know I contemplated these things. When I got home I am sure I carefully removed her clothes marveling at each garment. I had forgotten until undressing her again as part of writing this that she also had crocheted underwear! My friends and I had our favorite baby dolls we played with but none of us had something like this.


Her clothes of voile, netting, crocheted lace, machine-made lace, and satin ribbons were exquisitely stitched by hand and were so elegant. I had seen my mother mending and had tried my own hand with needle and thread enough to recognize the handwork as well as its intricacy. I didn’t even know this boy other than his name. Why and how was it

that he brought such a fancy gift to our class party?  Astonished and puzzled, I was profoundly touched. All the work his mother (I assumed his mother) must have put into it! For whatever reason, I thought he was from a "poor family," a feature paramount to this story. Where I got that notion, I do not know. I had no idea where he lived. My parents did not know his family. Perhaps, it was observation on my part; his clothes may have looked worn, his shoes tired and scuffed, his clothes wrinkled. Perhaps, there were markers of social class. My mother had made me acutely aware of appearances. True or not, because I thought he was poor, that deeply affected my reaction to this event.


I worried about the extravagance of the gift. I reasoned that perhaps the explanation for the handmade clothes was that it would be cheaper to make them than to buy them. Perhaps the doll was already in their house and no longer wanted. Or, it was purchased and her fine outfit was created to make a gift for me that Melton would not be ashamed of. My young mind reached for explanations. Humbled, I felt an undeserved grace.


    That day the architecture of my fledgling character was expanded. I discovered new emotions and that I could consider nuances of actions, even actions of adults. I was changed. I viscerally felt awe and wonder and gratitude. Little did I know that those feelings and the memory of all this would stay with me intensely the rest of my life even as so many other events faded away. Or that the importance, the meaning, the significance of this gift would ensure that I kept this little doll through the rest of my life during all the intervening seventy-six years with a whole huge life in between: through two marriages, bearing three children, having several professions, grandmothering, and at least nine moves from apartments to houses to one trailer, other houses, and finally back to an apartment.


Now, several days after awakening with the need to tell this story about Melton, about whom I still knew nothing, except for his remarkable gift, I set about trying to learn more about him. It didn’t take me long to learn that he might still be alive, that his only sibling, an older brother died a few years ago, and that he still lives in Alabama. His paternal grandfather had been a cashier in the western part of Birmingham. His brother had been a kind and caring man with a loving family according to the obituary.


Melton's mother was a homemaker, his father, according to several censuses and city directories, worked for the state agriculture system as some sort of agent, alternately referred to as an engineer. During the war and thereafter for a few years, he was some sort of engineer in a Birmingham steel mill. There was a large mill not too far from Lakeview School. The 1940 census lists Melton’s father as earning $3,000 that year, the equivalent of about $67,000 now. Today, that is not considered enough for a family of four to live comfortably. The 1950 census stopped listing income. My parent’s income with both of them working in 1940 was similar. So,  Melton’s parents were not likely “poor” despite my impression. However, they certainly had less than some of my friends’ fathers such as one who was a banker and another a restaurant chain owner. Perhaps by 1948, Melton’s family did have less than my parents. It appears I will never know.

    

Melton grew up to have a family. His wife had at least a few years of college and worked for a while for a popular magazine in the South. They had children, I am not sure of the number. Other than that, his life remains a mystery. I found a few phone numbers for him. I tried one and left a message. No reply. I may not try again. Some mystery needs to linger.


I never did name that precious little doll. She didn’t need a name. She was the fanciest doll I have ever had.

 

*I have always remembered Melton's whole name but am not using it to protect his privacy.


Postscript. When I placed the photo above showing the maker of the doll, it occurred to me I could look up the brand. After blissful ignorance all these years I learned my doll is a Nancy Ann Storybook Doll, made in bisque in the late 1930s and switched to hard plastic during the 1940s. They cost from 65 cents to more than a dollar complete with a fancy commercially made outfit. It also occurs to me now to wonder if Melton might have been embarrassed to give a doll as a gift.

 


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5 Comments


julianbland58
Jan 24

What a beautiful and touching memory, Marcia! Thank you for sharing. I am not at all surprised that—so young! —you were already alive to the preciousness of such a gift.

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Cyndi ONeal
Cyndi ONeal
Jan 19

I feel very connected to you again through your story. I pray you are doing well. Miss seeing you,

Cyndi O’Neal

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Marcia Edwina Herman-Giddens
Marcia Edwina Herman-Giddens
Jan 19
Replying to

Thank you, Cyndi. You were in my thoughts the other day.

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lgbrown601
lgbrown601
Jan 19

What a beautiful story, dear Marcia. Love to you and Doug.

Linda

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Marcia Edwina Herman-Giddens
Marcia Edwina Herman-Giddens
Jan 19
Replying to

Thank you so much. Love back to you and Ed.

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© 2023 Marcia E. Herman-Giddens
 
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