March 19, 2002

In that sentimental song about leaving childhood, we sing "Toyland, toyland, dear little girl and boy land, once you've crossed its borders, you may never return again."

That's not true. Oh, don't believe for a moment I'm cutting out paper dolls of Deanna Durbin or Shirley Temple (and, by the way, I hated those little girls who could sing and dance and look beautiful all at the same time), and I don't wind up a music box so a ballerina can dance around on one foot, and I don't line up lead soldiers to face each other on an imaginary line of battle. I also don't make potholders out of string -- although I could use a few. My passport in and out of Toyland is current. Each night I lock the door, turn off the porch light, dim the lamp in the living room, and say "Don't want to leave you in the dark, Ann. I'll see you in the morning." First thing in the morning, there she sits, still smiling with a narrow line of a grin so wide you believe she's forcing dimples, but only getting happy parentheses.

Ann was born on a bad hair day so she's called Raggedy Ann (People can be cruel.) I try to give her respect but in truth this rag doll carries no personal sentiments. I don't know which of our children owned the doll but here she is, sitting on the corner of the couch, one arm flung over the side. Sometimes I hand her a book if I think she's just smiling through tears.

There are some things you just can't discard and she's too big to shove in a drawer. I can't even take her to the St. Simons Island Fire Department for some touch-ups before placing her with other toys going to needy children. You can't touch her up. She's had a water stain across her forehead for years, either because one of our kids tried to bathe her or, kids being kids, flush her (ugh!).

I've sat her on the antique hobby horse near the fireplace, and in the little red rocking chair that survived all the children; she's never out of place. Everyone passing through knows exactly who she is, and no one has ever said, "What's she doing here?" Sometimes, I place her in between books on the shelf, her red-and-white-striped legs dangling, her smile so broad I can almost sense her little black shoes swinging in time to the music.

Ann did not begin her life as a toy with designer blueprints. A little girl, Marcella Gruelle, the legend goes, rummaged around in her attic one rainy day and found an old, musty rag doll. She started playing (let's say tea party), her father noticed possibilities and spruced up the little plaything. She provided endless hours of charming companionship for Marcella, then gave solace to her father a dozen years later when his teenaged daughter died.

Johnny Gruelle wrote endless stories about Raggedy Ann, gave her a friend, Andy, and captured us all. In the stories, the dolls come to life when mortals are not around.

My Ann is alive to me in a sense I can only describe as poet Roy Croft describes love:

I love you,
Not for what you are,
But for what I am
When I am with you.

Ann makes me happy. I have a feeling of well-being. The last thing at night and the first every morning, Ann puts a smile on my face.

Does having a doll and talking to her mean I'm in my second childhood? Well, if so, jump in, the water's fine. Last one in's a rotten egg!

I'll allow poet Croft have the last word on Ann and me:

You have done it without a touch,
Without a word, without a sign.
You have done it by being yourself.
Perhaps that is what being a friend means,
After all.