Doll Story

by Audrey Barclay

When I was seven years old, I was given a doll for Christmas by my favorite uncle and aunt.

It was a beautiful doll, with long, golden curls, and blue eyes that closed in sleep when I held her in my arms like a real baby.

She was much the finest doll I had ever owned--so fine in fact, that Mother only permitted me to play with her on very rare occasions. In between times she hung, like a picture, from a nail in the wall, held up by a ribbon tied around her middle.

One day, as I was enjoying the privilege of holding her in my arms, my younger sister, aged two and a half, set up a howl to play with my doll, and went into such a fit of temper that Mother reluctantly gave in, and said she might hold it awhile. Being so angry, her small hands had no sooner closed on the doll than it went sailing across the room, to land with a sickening thud against the wall. The beautiful head fell in pieces on the floor.

Had it been an accident I think I might have forgotten, in time. As it is, even though my sister and I are grandmothers now, and love each other dearly, I still find it hard to recall that incident without a deep feeling of bitterness and resentment.

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Editor's Note:  If you've already read the previous post, you know that Nina Barclay Beatie remembered "the doll story," too. The gist of Nina's story was the same as Audrey's, but some of the minor details were different--which is exactly what happens to most family stories as they're passed down orally from generation to generation. 

Were there significant incidents in your life that you'd like your descendants to know about? Write 'em down, people!