“The Lonely
Little Doll in the Corner of the Room.” When the title of this particular piece
occurred to me, it just seemed so “there there,” and, at the same time, so
inestimably sad.
My mother
was a collector of dolls, carnival glass, and model cars, and every room of her
house was lined with the stuff. Whereas, my father was an extraordinary
landscape artist, and every wall was replete with his characterizations of
mountains, streams, prairies and swamps.
Several
years before my father’s passing, and the subsequent passing of my mother, we
arrived at the joint conclusion that we would do something we’d never done ‘til
then; (nor did we have the opportunity to repeat it). We undertook a road trip
to South Carolina on a mission to locate the general area in which his
immigrant great Grandfather lived during the time in which he fought in the
American Revolution. (That is a story unto itself, and I neither have time nor
space to elaborate upon it now).
However,
having completed our quest, and enjoyed one another’s fellowship, we “set sail”
for home. And somewhere between the Palmetto State and the Sunshine State, we
pulled into the parking lot of a Cracker Barrel Restaurant. Of course, for any
of you who have ever frequented this fine establishment, you are all too aware
of the thousand square feet of display space which greets their patrons as they
walk through its portals. And as we strode our hungry selves into the place, I
made a mental note to do the ‘grand tour’ after my father and I had done our
best against the onslaught of trout and mashed potatoes.
I have long
since forgotten whether it was my suggestion, (or whether my dad came up with
the idea). I expect, however, that the doll was my suggestion, and not just any
doll, but the best that Cracker Barrel had to offer.
Pt. 2
My dad and I
had no sooner stepped up to the display shelves that we made a unanimous
decision to select the tallest and prettiest figurine of the bunch. She was about
2 feet in height and wore a floor length yellow layered gown; not unlike those
paintings of plantation Belles. Her exquisite costume was topped off by a hat
of the same cloth and color. While the price was a bit steep, about $50, my
father never hesitated, and having retrieved it from the shelf, he quickly made
his way to the cashier.
No doubt, my
mother loved the doll, and as I recall it was one of her featured little
‘pretties’ and, though I am most obviously a guy, one that I always liked and
admired among her ceramic menagerie. After her death, her children, and
grandchildren chose from among the dolls and carnival glass and model cars, and
took with them whatever they wished.
And as you
might expect, given my history with the “Cracker Barrel Doll,” I retrieved it
from its place of honor, along with several others of lesser size and beauty.
With the passing of months, I bequeathed some of the dolls to several women
with whom my mother was especially close, as well as a couple of my daughters.
And ultimately, I was left with two. That one which I have previously
described, and a somewhat smaller one which was clothed in a similar dress and
hat.
And for the
space of two years the dolls stood, side by side, on a table in the corner of
my wife’s bedroom; awaiting their ultimate separation from one another. For you
see, I had pledged the smaller of the two to my oldest daughter, and it was
only with the passage of time that I was able to fulfill my promise.
Pt. 3
I have
watched one particular segment of “The Twilight Zone,” entitled, “After Hours,”
starring Anne Francis, numerous times. Throughout the course of this segment,
we are introduced to a large, multi-storied department store, and a host of
mannequins which ‘inhabit’ the premises. I use the word, ‘inhabit’ since in
this almost believable ‘yarn,’ the plastic occupants of the building come to
life, after all the ‘real’ ones head home at the close of business. And,
interestingly enough (at least to me), each and every one of the mannequins are
granted one week per year to leave the confines of the department store, and
live among the several billion members of mankind who frequent this planet.
I admit it. More than once, as I have walked past that bedroom's open door, and glanced at the two similarly dressed and quite life-like dolls, I have recalled the "After Hours" segment of "Twilight Zone." And to be sure, I have imagined that, like their full-scale replicas, these 21st century miniatures possessed some of the same attributes, as their fancified 20th century television ancestors.
I admit it. More than once, as I have walked past that bedroom's open door, and glanced at the two similarly dressed and quite life-like dolls, I have recalled the "After Hours" segment of "Twilight Zone." And to be sure, I have imagined that, like their full-scale replicas, these 21st century miniatures possessed some of the same attributes, as their fancified 20th century television ancestors.
At this writing, it has been two months since
I delivered the smaller of the ceramic dolls to my daughter. And these days, as
I walk past my wife’s bedroom, and glance into that little corner of the room,
and study the familiar features of the “Cracker Barrel Belle,” it seems to me,
she seems so all alone; (as if she realizes her little friend has taken a trip
from whence she will never return).
As a
counselor, I have intervened in the lives of thousands of men, women, boys and
girls, and have been exposed to a multitude of aberrant personalities and the
stories which accompanied them. And thus, you might imagine I am reticent to
confide the following, for fear you might too easily assign some of those same
symptoms to yours truly.
However,
they say “Confession is good for the soul.” And given this premise, I will “put
myself out,” and share the following experience with you.
Yesterday,
as I walked past the open door and glanced into that same room to which I have
previously alluded, I paused a moment, and directing my gaze and subsequent
words towards the little Southern Belle on the corner table offered her the
kind of encouragement I might just as easily offered a client, (or member of my
family).
“You needn’t
be lonely. We’re right here with you.”
(Please
don’t dial “9.1.1.” or call “the men in white,” but I may have to find another
of her kind to substitute for her friend who has forever departed the
premises).
-
by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol. 59. Copyright Pending.
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