Christmas was coming. I was ten and my sister was nine. We were so excited when the two plain white boxes were delivered. Mama said we were keeping them for the neighbors so their children wouldn’t see them before Christmas. Argue though we did, convinced they were the walking dolls we wanted, we couldn’t move her. So we just had to wait until Christmas.
That morning, we saw the two plain white boxes under the tree. We tore open the boxes. Inside each was the desired walking doll, mine with blond hair and my sister’s with brown. They were beautiful. If you held their hands and tilted them slightly as you moved them forward, they would extend one leg and then the other and together you made the journey across the room. My two-year-old brother loved the dolls too. He would grab one and dance around the room. How I wish I had a picture of him with a doll as tall as he was, dancing across the floor! It is a cherished memory, especially so since he died of lung cancer two years ago.
My sister and I still have our dolls. Mine sits on my bed. Her “hair” was replaced many years ago, but since it isn’t comb-able, it looks a little messy. But that’s okay. Whenever I look at her, I remember Wayne dancing with one of the dolls. And it makes me smile.