Debby Does…

I’m sitting at my desk with a Mary Hoyer doll to my right. She belonged to my mom, purchased on the boardwalk in Ocean City, New Jersey, when she was a wee girl. She is well loved, though in need of some “work.” At some point, my mom decided to trim her bangs—disastah, dahling—and I am trying to find a replacement wig for her. Apparently, they still make them and Mary needs one.

I always loved that doll. My godmother made custom clothing for her, which she still wears, and she even had a clothing rack to hold all her outfits. I played with her until most little girls had grown out of dolls. I was just fascinated by her and dressing her in her tiny undergarments and hats.

We also had a doll that sat in my grandparents’ living room for many years. She had her own plush rocker, but that wasn’t the best part. She had jewelry! She had a real gold bracelet and, get this, her ears were pierced! She had sapphire earrings to match her blue gingham dress. She was bisque with perfect chestnut hair, rosy lips, and pink hued cheeks. I was always careful when I held her because there was some concern that her eyes would roll back in her head and never return to gaze at me again.

Now, I’m not one of those crazy doll people with heavily made up faces staring creepily at you, as though they’re following you. I just love dolls and miniatures and things that are way too simple for today’s world.

I guess I would call myself a progressive old soul.

As an only child, creative and imaginative yet independent play was required. That lent itself particularly well to storybooks, every Fischer Price building, paper dolls, my epic doll house, and, of course, an imaginary friend in the sandbox—named Sandy. Don’t worry, I got more creative as I grew.

I’ve moved the dollhouse built for me in the mid 1970s by my granny and her Presbyterian minister brother, John, multiple times. I just cannot let it go. I want to refurbish it and restore its magic. Every time I start, something interrupts me. Moving is that interruption now.

I’m not sure that our new house in Indiana will have a place for the big blue doll house, and that’s worrying me. It was made with such love for me and provided me with so many afternoons of pleasure and make believe. My love of tiny things and storytelling was born of that doll house. My granny would craft kitchen stools for it out of the toppers on champagne bottles and “glass topped” coffee tables from Tic Tac boxes, filled with tiny shells. Any little piece of ephemera that came her way became something magical in that house.

The masterpiece of the doll house was the fireplace. My granny was a master shell crafter and, with the exception of her stunning sailors valentine, the fireplace was her greatest effort. It even won a prize at a shell show! I have wrapped it carefully and cradled it on beds of tissue and bubblewrap to keep it safe for almost 50 years. It’s a true treasure.

I firmly believe that those days filled with hours of play and imagination have made me the improv lover and creative thinker you know today. What a gift to give to a seven year old girl, who might have been more than a little lonely and sad after her parents’ divorce. It’s no coincidence that the family residing in that doll house was named The Happys.

Get a big box, Jim. That house is going with me. We’ll find a place for it. We always do.