Unwrapping a Dream

Unwrapping a Dream

The year was 1963, and Midge, “Barbie’s Best Friend,” cost $3.98.  Oh, how I wanted her!  Barbie, 11 inches of cold, somewhat haughty perfection, was not the doll for me.  Midge, with her sprinkling of freckles and sandy-colored “flip” hairdo, had a friendly, open look that a rather gawky 10-year-old like me could relate to. Besides, most of my friends had a Barbie, maybe even a Ken, but few had a Midge.  There she was, wrapped in plastic, with the $3.98 right on the box.  I had roughly half that amount clutched in my hand.

My parents had given me, my younger brother, and older sister, $2 each to spend during our week’s vacation in Wildwood, N.J.  This was Friday night, almost our last chance to shop, because we were scheduled to leave that Sunday morning, when no stores would be open. While our teenage sister and brother were walking on the boardwalk, the three of us, known collectively as “the younger ones,” had gone to check out the souvenirs at the drugstore down the corner from the apartment our family was renting. 

Looking back, I realize now that I was putting my mother on the spot, asking her for extra money, as our vacation—and most likely our family funds--ran down. We weren’t staying at one of the ‘60s-chic hotels, whose pools reflected neon signs trumpeting names like  “Thunderbird Inn,” or “Rio Grande Motel,” or (off and on) “No Vacancy.”  The seven of us were staying in a clean, but plainly furnished railroad-car apartment in a duplex named Arkay, after the owner’s wife, Kay, and their accordion-playing 10-year-old daughter, Arlene.

Despite my pleas, Mom was steadfast in her refusals, pointing out the unfairness of giving one child more money than the others.  “They won’t mind,” I assured her, though I knew better. Finally, I played my ace card:  “You can give me the money as an early birthday present. I won’t ask for anything else.”  My September birthday was two weeks away. Mom considered for a moment, then said those words that sometimes created hope, sometimes despair, “I’ll talk it over with your father.”

This time they presaged joy.  Dad said yes.  The next morning, I dashed to the store immediately after breakfast, my older sister with me.  On the way back, we bumped into Arlene, and for once I felt her equal, despite the fact that she had a place down the shore, an accordion, and bike that had never belonged to an older brother or sister.  I had a brand-new Midge!

Forty-eight years later, the dust glinting in the sun rays coming through the small window of our dusty attic, as I open the black plastic case my parents gave me that Christmas to hold Midge and her ever-growing collection of dresses and mismatched shoes, I feel some of the anticipation I felt opening the clear wrapping that day in August.

 Ol’ Midge is in pretty good shape; her flip a little worse for my attempts to make her more glamorous with up-dos.  I notice the clothes my talented Aunt Kass and cousin Miriam stitched together for her—especially a white dress, complete with pink pom-pom trim, made with the remnant from the curtains that hung in Miriam’s room.  There’s the gown I hand-sewed for her the year I mastered French embroidery knots. But oh, the “real” Mattel brand clothes were once my favorites, especially the sophisticated v-necked dress my mother called a cocktail dress. The blue-green velour is worn-away in several places.

Friends tell me I might get a good price for Midge on E-Bay, especially because I have the case and a few original Mattel outfits.  Some people out there do love dolls. As little girls, my two daughters preferred stuffed animals or plastic “Pound Puppies.”  When they were older, and I thought they might appreciate seeing Midge and my baby dolls (yes, I am a “keeper”), they showed little interest.  Perhaps I had waited too long.

But I can’t sell Midge (or the others).  Some part of me needs to hold on to her, to remember the little girl who had a dream come true. 

And, who knows, one day I might have a grand-daughter who would like to meet Midge.  Guess once a dreamer, always a dreamer….