My mother said she thought the doll was ugly. Mrs. Beasley had yellow hair and had a yellow and white polka dotted skirt and legs. She wore rectangular spectacles. She was a talking doll. When you pulled her string, Mrs. Beasley said, “Want to hear a secret? I know one.” My mother might have thought she was an ugly doll, but I grew attached to Mrs. Beasley immediately.
My sister and I spent hours playing with our dolls. She had a collection of beautiful baby dolls with silky curls and eyes that opened and closed. Sometimes she’d let me put one of the embroidered, crinoline dresses on Mrs. Beasley. I’d also take off her glasses so she looked more like a baby and less “ugly.”
Mrs. Beasley was a source of comfort for me. When I was not playing with her, she had a prominent spot in the center of my bed and propped up by pillows. I took her along on camping trips and on visits to Gramma. She was who I reached for when I felt like crying, or when I couldn’t sleep.
I remember one time before my mother left us, she grabbed Mrs. Beasley off my bed and threatened to cut her to bits with the shears she had taken from my father’s pattern table. I pleaded and screamed and cried until I collapsed on the floor. My mother laughed, dropped Mrs. Beasley on me and left the room.
We had survived my mother’s wrath. If Mrs. Beasley had been capable of real feelings (which I believed for years) she was as relieved as I was. Mrs. Beasley saw me through my parents’ divorce, my teen angst and breakups. Even when I was in college, I still sometimes hugged her and cried. She retained her spot on my bed when I moved into my first apartment. My roommate thought I was odd.
Eventually I got married, and when I moved into my marital abode, Mrs. Beasley got packed into a box for storage. I hoped one day when I had my own daughter, she would enjoy Mrs. Beasley as much as I had. When the kids were small, I recovered her from storage. I had to sew on one of her arms. One of the cats later chewed off one of her hands. My daughter didn’t want to play with Mrs. Beasley. I think she was scared of her. I pulled on the string to hear, “Want to hear a secret? I know one.” What came out was something garbled and creepy, like something you’d hear in a horror movie. Mrs. Beasley got moved from a shelf to the bottom of the toy box along with broken Lego blocks. I don’t know when—maybe I’m blocking it out—I finally let her go and put her in a box with other broken or mismatched toys we put on the curb for Spring cleanup. All these years later I feel guilty and sad about it. Mrs. Beasley was more than just a doll to me.
Think about your favorite childhood toys or something you became attached to. Describe it using all senses. Who gave it to you? Why was it your favorite? Set your timer for fifteen minutes and freewrite without stopping. Feel free to share your memories here…