Love Me Linda

So, a couple of days ago I started a massive project--to clean out my really big, overstuffed walk-in closet. Not only do I have an absurd amount of clothes crammed in there (for example, I counted and I had 27 pairs of black pants. Now, they aren't new, fashionable lovely black pants. They're probably every pair of black pants I've bought for the last 15 years. I do like black pants...but that gives you an idea the state it was in.)

I didn't just find clothes. I found not one but three, yes THREE sets of hot curlers PLUS one of those "molecular hairsetters" that were briefly the rage in 90's. I found a Polaroid camera. I found scarves, hats, belts, all kinds of goofy old stuff I didn't know was in there. I had over fifty pairs of shoes, and that doesn't count my rainbow assortment of Old Navy rubber flipflops.

It was just ridiculous, and it felt very cathartic to sort huge piles of give-away and throw-away things. I bought various bins and shelves to organize the things on the closet shelves. I got those slimline fuzzy hangers and threw out all the wire and plastic ones.

Anyway, it was all fun and games till I came across something I didn't remember was in there--my beloved Linda. Linda was my doll--the one I slept with every night and dragged around everywhere with me. I loved every hair off her head--she's bald as a cueball. Her original clothes are long gone, and she's attired in a dubious "dress" I sewed for her somewhere along 4th or 5th grade. I picked her up, shook the dust off her and said to myself, "You are 52 years old. It's time to let the doll go." SO I laid her at the top of the big outdoor trash bin full of clothes I had parked by the back door.

Later in the afternoon, I walked to the bin with another load of stuff, saw her lying there in her horrible homemade dress, and shocked myself by bursting into tears. I realized that 52 or not, I'm not ready to let my dolly go.

I remember when I saw her. It was Christmas Eve 1965 and my goofball dad was doing his annual Christmas Eve trip to the stores to shop for my mother. He did this every Christmas of his life, bless his heart. He actually liked to go out on Christmas Eve to shop. Lord knows how he found anything for her, but he always did. We were in downtown Ft. Worth, at the old Striplings department store (soon to disappear like every other family owned store in America, but still in its heydey then.) It had a beautiful toy department, with fancy, high-end toys. For some reason, I'd gone on my dad's outing with him, and I asked if I could go look at the toys while he shopped. I saw her standing on the counter in a doll stand as soon as I walked in, and I instantly loved her. She was a beautiful doll, with long hair, huge eyes and a blue calico dress with bloomers and tights. I stood there the whole time my dad shopped, gazing at her, but I when he finally came to get me, I didn't ask for her. We lived on a fairly tight budget, and Santa usually brought us one "big" gift, plus a few books and clothes or smaller toys. I had already asked for what I thought was a HUGE gift--a transistor radio. I was pretty sure I wasn't going to get any additional spectacular items.

But of course, you can guess the rest. The next morning when I woke up, there, next to the coveted transistor radio, stood Linda. I was so dumbstruck I couldn't even speak. Instead, I cried. I'm fighting a lump in my throat even now, as I type this. My dad has been gone fifteen years now, but looking at my doll brings him right back to me. It's not just that he got me my heart's desire, but that he read it on my face.

Anyway, I picked Linda out of the trashcan, went to the computer and started Googling. By Googling 1960's dolls, I eventually found her. She was a Vogue doll (they made the famous Ginny dolls), and her full name was Love Me Linda. After a little more looking, I even found an entire gallery of photos of her. (Click the link to see her--my Linda had the blue outfit, but she came in some others, too.) Apparently, some people still collect her. Also, I think I may have some hope of being able to one day find her original clothes on Ebay. Maybe I'll even have her hair rerooted.

Not just for me--but in memory of the special Santa of my childhood Christmases.