The Best Kind of Day

You can go back to your childhood for one day. What day and age do you choose?

To quote Joyce Summers, "My, that's a terrible thought."

I pick a day in mid-spring the year I was 4. It's before the awful started. Before I knew to be afraid. Before I knew bad things could happen to me.

I am at my grandparents' house. I stay with my great-grandmother while everyone else is at work. She has chores to do, but she includes me in all of them. We bake biscuits together. She lets me have my own lump of dough to roll out all by myself. I sneak little bites of the dough. We place biscuits on the little black baking sheets, and I play with my doll while Nur gets the rest of our meal ready.

Later we will wash clothes and hang them on the line to dry. We'll take a walk through the back field and go home to pull off the briars that have stuck to my socks. Maybe we'll play Old Maid. But through it all, I will hum and sing and smile and dance, because I know I am loved. I know I am safe, because nothing bad has ever happened to me.

Emily Webb in "Our Town", after she has died, asks to go back for just one day. Mrs. Gibbs says, "No!—At least, choose an unimportant day. Choose the least important day in your life. It will be important enough." Emily chooses her 12th birthday, but she can't bear it, saying, "All that was going on in life and we never noticed."

So I choose an unimportant day. A day when life was so normal. The best kind of day to remember.

linking up with Writer's Workshop

A Girl's Best Friend

This is Dahlia (daylia). She was my first ever Christmas doll. I was about 18 months old when I got her. That same Christmas, Santa brought me a little red rocking chair as well (which I still have).

My mother says that I walked right up to her, picked her up and sat down in the chair and began to rock and sing to her.

She was my constant companion. By the time I'd had her a little more than a year, we had to restuff her body, as I had loved her flat! I remember sitting in my grandparent's living room (we were living with them at the time) with my mother. She explained that she was the doctor and I was the nurse and we were going to operate on Dahlia. It was all very serious. We plumped her up with cotton balls!

For years she was half bald, because I carried her around by her hair.

Once when I was in high school, I came home from some activity to find Dahlia sitting on the mantel in a new dress. My mother had been home alone and made Dahlia some new clothes -- just because.

A few years ago I found a doll repair specialist and turned Dahlia over to her with very specific instructions. 

It was a lot like leaving a child alone at the hospital. What was I thinking? What was SHE thinking?

A couple of weeks later my husband picked her up and I dressed her in the new outfit I had bought for her.

I love her just as much now as I did that first time I saw her. She now sits at the foot of my bed with other beloved folks. She is a treasure!

(this is a repost from 10/1/10)

linking up with Writer's Workshop

Cherished

I have cherished her as long as I can remember. Since the Christmas morning I rocked her in my new red rocking chair. She was my constant companion throughout my childhood. A witness to some of the horrors. The only comfort at times. I mistreated her at times -- unintentionally of course.

She came with a pink plastic crib. Dressed in a pink gingham bubble suit. Over the years those were lost, and the mother made more clothes for her. As a teenager, I still gave her a place of honor in my room.

She moved with me when I married. And I allowed my daughter to occasionally play with her. But she was mine.

Not long after the diagnosis of PTSD and beginning to unravel my past, I found a doll doctor. A lovely lady who did repairs from her home and treated these beings with the honor they deserved.

It was difficult having her away from me, but when she returned it was worth it. She was refreshed. She was getting a second chance. And maybe I was too. It was turning point for both of us.

She is cherished still. She sits in a place of honor at my tea table. She and I have traveled long and treacherous roads together. 

And we have miles to go before we sleep.

Dahlia

linking up with Five Minute Friday

Living Room Surgery

This is Dahlia (daylia). 
Santa brought her to my second Christmas. 
She has always been part of my life, so my earliest memory is about her. 
No I don't actually remember that Christmas morning, but I do remember an afternoon maybe a year and a half later. 
I carried Dahlia everywhere I went -- usually by her hair, creating a lovely cave woman style 'do for her. But I digress.
It must have been either late afternoon or it was raining, because in my memory the room is muted.
My mother sits on the big chair with her sewing supplies on the table next to her. I am standing at her knee, while Dahlia lies naked in her lap. My mother explains that Dahlia needs a little plumping up and we are going to do surgery on her to help her out. My mother is the doctor and I will be the nurse.
She assures me Dahlia is fine and will wake-up feeling much better.
My mother carefully pulls stitches from Dahlia's back and begins to insert cotton balls. When we have agreed that Dahlia looks much better, mother stitches her up with tiny stitches. She turns Dahlia over softly patting her on the belly, so I can see her face. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is still pursed in the sweet smile she has. All is well.
That's all I remember. I assume we dressed her back in her pink gingham romper, and she and I went on our merry way.
She still hangs out with me everyday. Sitting at the end of my bed. She had a make-over courtesy of professionals a few years back, and new hair and clothes.
She is all that was good in my childhood.

linking up to Writer's Workshop

Dahlia

This is Dahlia (daylia). She was my first ever Christmas doll. I was about 18 months old when I got her. That same Christmas, Santa brought me a little red rocking chair as well (which I still have).

My mother says that I walked right up to her, picked her up and sat down in the chair and began to rock and sing to her.

She was my constant companion. By the time I'd had her a little more than a year, we had to restuff her body, as I had loved her flat! I remember sitting in my grandparent's living room (we were living with them at the time) with my mother. She explained that she was the doctor and I was the nurse and we were going to operate on Dahlia. It was all very serious. We plumped her up with cotton balls!

For years she was half bald, because I carried her around by her hair.

Once when I was in high school, I came home from some activity to find Dahlia sitting on the mantel in a new dress. My mother had been home alone and made Dahlia some new clothes -- just because.

A few years ago I found a doll repair specialist and turned Dahlia over to her with very specific instructions. 

It was a lot like leaving a child alone at the hospital. What was I thinking? What was SHE thinking?

A couple of weeks later my husband picked her up and I dressed her in the new outfit I had bought for her.

I love her just as much now as I did that first time I saw her. She now sits at the foot of my bed with other beloved folks. She is a treasure!

(this is a repost from 10/1/10)

Change

She is 4-years-old and staying with her great-grandmother, Nur (nuh) while the parents are at work. It's a sunny spring day. Aunt Ruth is there too. Ruth is Nur's deceased husband's aunt, who raised him after his parents died. Ruth lives in the house because no one else will have her, and Nur has promised Gram (her husband) that she will care for her.

Nur is hanging laundry on the line in the backyard. It is a load of sheets. She is hanging large white flat sheets with her back to the little girl. She is sitting on the back stoop playing with her doll, Dahlia (daylia). Dahlia and she are inseparable. It is very warm and sunny on the porch. She carefully sits Dahlia on the step and goes into the house. She is headed to the bathroom, when out of nowhere she is struck in the face by the back of Ruth's hand. The next thing she knows, she is lying on the floor looking at the rocker on Ruth's chair. Ruth is leaning over the little girl and yelling. Her face is contorted and she is shaking her finger at the little girl. She knows Ruth is talking to her, but at first she can't make out the words. Ruth says something about that Lucile (Nur) woman. It's the little girl’s fault she says. If she hadn't . . . what? Ruth grabs her arm and hauls her up. “Don't tell anyone. They won't believe you. You're a liar.” She shoves the little girl toward the door leading to the rest of the house.

She wanders to the bathroom. She wants to see her face in the mirror, but she is too short. She must be a different person now. She uses the bathroom. She is trapped. She wants out of the house, but to get out she’ll have to walk by Ruth again. How can she keep from making her mad again when she doesn't know what she did the first time? She settles into the corner behind the bathroom door. If she stays here, Nur will worry and come looking. Maybe she'll be mad too. The little girl reaches for the doorknob and turns it slowly. She peeks out into the hallway. She doesn't see anyone. She can hear the TV from the den. Ruth is watching wrestling. Ruth loves wrestling. Slowly she creeps out of the bathroom and into the hallway. Tiptoes into the kitchen very carefully, listening, watching. She makes her way to the den door and peers around. Ruth is still in her chair, focused on the TV. The little girl edges around the door frame and keeps as close as possible to the far side of the room. She never takes her eyes off Ruth, and Ruth never looks at the little girl. Finally she is passed the chair. The back door is in sight. The little girl makes a dash for it, flinging open the screen door. She is safe! She has made it to the stoop. Everything looks the same. Nur is still hanging out sheets. Dahlia is sitting on the step waiting. The sun is shining and a warm breeze is blowing, but nothing is the same. It is all different.

She picks up Dahlia and goes to sit in the shadowed corner between the stoop and the house. What did she do?

for more links go to Write on Edge

Meet My Friend Dahlia

This is Dahlia (daylia). She is my first ever Christmas doll. I was about 18 months old when I got her. That same Christmas, Santa brought me a little red rocking chair as well (which I still have).

My mother says that I walked right up to her, picked her up and sat down in the chair and began to rock and sing to her.

She was my constant companion. By the time I'd had her a little more than a year, we had to restuff her body, as I had loved her flat! I remember sitting in my grandparent's living room (we were living with them at the time) with my mother. She explained that she was the doctor and I was the nurse and we were going to operate on Dahlia. It was all very serious. We plumped her up with cotton balls!

For years she was half bald, because I carried her around by her hair.

Once when I was in high school, I came home from some activity to find Dahlia sitting on the mantel in a new dress. My mother had been home alone and made Dahlia some new clothes -- just because.

A few years ago I found a doll repair specialist and turned Dahlia over to her with very specific instructions. 

It was a lot like leaving a child alone at the hospital. What was I thinking? What was SHE thinking?

A couple of weeks later my husband picked her up and I dressed her in the new outfit I had bought for her.

I love her just as much now as I did that first time I saw her. She now sits at the foot of my bed with other beloved folks. She is a treasure!

Feel Good Friday is hosted by The Girl Next Door Grows Up.

Everything Changes

Yesterday I spent some time working through another episode from my childhood. This is the first one, I'm pretty sure. I am 4-years-old and staying with my great-grandmother while my parents are at work. It's a sunny spring day. My great-grandmother lived with my paternal grandparents. We called her Nur (nuh). My grandmother was Dee and my grandfather was Da. There was one other occupant in the house, Aunt Ruth. Ruth was Nur's deceased husband's aunt, who had raised him after his parents died. Ruth lived in the house because no one else would have her, and Nur has promised Gram (her husband) that she would care for her.

Ruth's life story would take up at least a week's worth of blogs. We'll get to that later. Suffice it to say, the family saying was, "She's too mean to die!" But I digress, this is my story.

Nur was hanging laundry on the line in the backyard. It was a load of sheets. She is hanging large white flat sheets with her back to me. I am sitting on the back stoop playing with my doll, Dahlia (daylia). Dahlia and I were inseparable. It is very warm and sunny on the porch. I carefully place Dahlia sitting on the step and go into the house. I am headed to the bathroom, when out of nowhere I am struck in the face by the back of Ruth's hand. The next thing I know, I am lying on the floor looking at the rocker on Ruth's chair. She is leaning over me and yelling. Her face is contorted and she is shaking her finger at me. I know she is talking to me, but at first I can't make out the words. She says something about that Lucile (Nur) woman. It's my fault she says. If hadn't . . . what? She grabs my arm and hauls me up. Don't tell anyone. They won't believe you. You're a liar. She shoves me toward the door leading to the rest of the house.

I wander to the bathroom. I want to see my face in the mirror, but I am too short. I am sure I look like a different person. I use the bathroom. Now I am stuck. I want out of the house, but to get out I'll have to walk by Ruth again. How can I keep from making her mad again when I don't know what I did the first time? I settle into the corner behind the bathroom door. If I stay, Nur will worry about me and come looking. Maybe she'll be mad too. I reach for the doorknob and turn it slowly. I peek out into the hallway. I don't see anyone. I can hear the TV from the den. Ruth is watching wrestling. She loves it. I slowly creep out of the bathroom and into the hallway. Tiptoe into the kitchen very carefully, listening, watching. I make my way to the den door and peer around. Ruth is still in her chair, focused on the TV. I edge around the door frame and keep as close to the far side of the room as possible. I never take my eyes off Ruth and she never looks at me. Finally I am passed her chair and the back door is in sight. I make a dash for it, flinging open the screen door. I am safe! I have made it to the stoop. Everything looks the same. Nur is still hanging out sheets. Dahlia is sitting on the step waiting for me. The sun is shining and a warm breeze is blowing, but nothing is the same. It is all different.

I pick up Dahlia and go sit in the shadowed corner between the stoop and the house. What did I do?