Memoir Monday – The Princess Doll


I was dragging my feet along the tiled floor of the grocery store aisles, my mind probably at home in my room with my toys and books.  Or maybe I was thinking about what would be on the table for dinner that night. Perhaps it would be my favourite, chicken and dumplings. Of course my child’s mind didn’t think about how that would happen when it was already getting dark outside, and Mom the cook was still in the grocery store.

My daddy was holding my hand while mother was consulting her list and piling items from the shelves into the metal shopping cart, when my eyes darted upward to a crowded shelf that held not peas and corn, nor bread and cereal.  Instead the shelf was full of toys! There were big red trucks and shiny toy drums, building blocks and dolls. Dolls! That’s when I saw her. My eyes grew big as saucers; my feet stuck to the floor. There she stood, taller than all of the others, that princess doll.  Her shoulder-length hair was a dark blond and set in a Paige-boy style. The sparkling “silver” tiara on her head completed the royal look presented by the dark blue satin gown, trimmed with white lace. Her blue eyes shone from her perfect rosy face. All I could do was stare. I could imagine her sitting elegantly on my bed.

Although Mom and Dad looked toward where I was pointing, they didn’t seem to share my excitement and my pleas to buy her went unheeded. It was just a few weeks before Christmas and Mom’s thoughts were on getting the Christmas baking ingredients and the week’s meal supplies. They may have told me too that they couldn’t afford to buy her then. Or possibly they’d suggested I put her on my list to Santa. I’m sure I dreamed about her that night, but she wasn’t mentioned again.

The weeks passed and soon it was Christmas morning.  I wasn’t allowed to go downstairs until the rest of my family was up. Since my three siblings were teenagers who’d much rather linger in their beds, I had to be content with dumping out the contents of my stocking that hung on my bedroom door knob. When I was finally allowed to creep down the steep stairs to the living room, my eyes lit up in disbelief. There in front of the Christmas tree stood my princess! That was all I needed. I ran to examine her. She was even more beautiful up close than she’d been up on that shelf.  I looked at the little pearl earrings on her earlobes, and the triple strand pearl choker necklace around her neck. Her nicely shaped feet fit perfectly into the silver plastic, high-heeled slippers. That was the best Christmas ever!

I didn’t play much with that doll. I was almost getting to an age that I was more interested in playing games and reading books and playing outdoors than playing with dolls.  But I loved to look at her where she sat on my bed. She held that spot as I grew up, married and had daughters of my own. My father-in-law, an antique dealer, once offered me $100 for her, but I turned him down. A number of years later, when her dress had faded to a dull purple and the elastic of her necklace and slippers had rotted and broken, like my marriage, and I needed the cash, I made her a new dress and regretfully sold her on eBay for far less.

I wonder now what that doll represented. Why did I want her so badly? And why, when my daughters were given a number of very pretty and costumed dolls as Christmas gifts from an uncle, did I have a shelf built for them to be displayed, rather played with? Interesting questions.

Do you have a similar story, a childhood memory about a special gift? I’d love to hear about it.

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Memoir Monday – Brockville Miss Teen Centennial Queen


Walking  stiffly down the runway, (which was really the dock at St. Lawrence Park) I was feeling very self-conscious in my green-striped swimsuit and high-heeled shoes, my hair piled high in curls on the top of my head.  My sash fell off my shoulder, but I couldn’t move my hands  to slide it back into place.  I just kept walking towards the judges’ table.  I looked at the one familiar face there, that of Norm, a friend of my sister.  I gave a feeble smile.  He smiled back.  I don’t remember making my way back up the ramp, nor what happened next.  When was the judging done?  What did we do while we waited?  Obviously we changed into our dresses at some point, and must have done the walk again. I don’t remember any of it. I know that I eventually joined the line of other contestants, all anxiously waiting on the runway in front of the judges for the names of the winners to be called – Miss Congeniality, Fourth Runner-up, Third Runner-up, Second Runner-up, First Runner-up, and finally Miss Teen Centennial.

It was the summer of 1967, Canada’s Centennial year.  I was a very shy seventeen year- old, greatly lacking in self-confidence.  What was I doing here?  The pageant was sponsored by the local Kinsmen Club, and my neighbour was scouting for contestants.  He approached me once and I was flattered, but declined. The second time, I agreed without thinking about what was involved.  I guess even then I knew that I had to push myself to move out of my comfort zone.

My sponsor was to be one of the local pharmacies.  We were required to make appointments to have our pictures taken by the local newspaper, and to have our hair done for free at one of the beauty salons.  I needed a new dress and swimsuit and shoes.  My older sister was recruited by my mother to take me shopping. Why would she not want to take me herself?

We had a fun time doing the stores, looking for bargains. We came home with the modest green and navy striped one-piece swimsuit, a simple, form-fitting shift-style dress in a satiny tapestry of pastel colours, and a pair of white (I think) high-heeled shoes.

Why are there no pictures?

tiara (2)

I made my hair appointment. I took myself down to the newspaper office for the photo shoot and interview. A few days later, I got a request to go back. She told me the pictures didn’t turn out very well. When the newspaper arrived with my picture and bio I was very devastated. The picture was terrible! My eyes seemed to bug out from my face. Could it have been better than the first one?! I think Mom might have kept that, but I insisted it be destroyed.

One evening all the contestants had to meet at the park to go through the stage plan. My boyfriend at the time walked me over and proudly assured me that I would be a winner.

On the morning of the pageant, I got my thick, brown hair piled onto the top of my head. The stylist was quite chatty and he commented that only one of the contestants had failed to make a hair appointment. He figured she wouldn’t have a chance. The whole contest was based on looks. I spent the afternoon sitting in the sun at the cottage, working on a tan.

There was a lot of chatter and excitement in the change room before the pageant. Someone didn’t have gloves; someone loaned her extra pair. We fussed with our hair and makeup and offered each other encouragement. We draped our white satin sashes over our shoulders. We admired each other, and silently assessed our own chances. We were asked to fill out a secret vote for Miss Congeniality, and then it was time to line up for our walk.

“Miss Congeniality goes to Miss …” The girl who shared her gloves.

“Fourth Runner-Up, Miss…”

“Third Runner-Up, Miss …” I think this was my distant cousin, Paula, who I thought was most likely my stiffest competition. My excitement began to build. Maybe I could be a winner after all.

“First Runner-Up, Miss …” My heart was pounding.

“Miss Teen Centennial Queen, …” The winner was the girl who didn’t get her hair done; the one who appeared in her everyday plain brown swimsuit, and flat shoes; the one who didn’t fret about how she looked.

Maybe they weren’t judging only on looks. Maybe self-confidence played a role too.

As we walked past the spectators, back to retrieve our belongings from the dressing room, I heard a few comments that helped lift my spirits.

“You should have won!”

But I didn’t and I moved on. I had never before considered myself to be a Beauty Queen anyway, but it was exciting to think about for a short time.

Many years later, when I met Norm again at my niece’s wedding, he apologized to me.

“I really thought you should win, but I couldn’t convince the other judges.”

I smiled. “Thanks, Norm. That’s alright.”