A BURIED TREASURE, A NEW ADVENTURE

He almost went into the freebie pile. He stands 7 1/2 inches tall. I should say he measures that tall because he can’t stand on his own. His clothes are moth-eaten. His feet look too wide and big for his short legs. Yet there was something about him that intrigued me. Mind you, it took several months to inventory my mother’s doll collection that became mine when we lived together at the end of her life, and to reconfigure the doll room for my next life chapter: finding forever homes for 700 dolls. One at a time. I couldn’t linger over this funny man. But he was special. I could feel it.

Mama Jo died six years ago. I’ve learned that grief has its own timetable. It’s taken this long to be ready to dismantle an extraordinary four-generation legacy and not feel like I’m being a bad daughter. It was her wish that the dolls stay together. I came up with a solution that works for me and will also honor her and comply with her wish. I started an internet shop on RubyLane.com called Mama Jo’s House of Dolls – where every doll has a story and a surprise! There’s also a Facebook page under that name where new “moms” and “dads” can post photos. And the PINTEREST page shows all that have been up for adoption. They can all stay together virtually.

They can even friend each other.

The collection feels larger to me now that it’s slowly spreading over the world. It also feels like the final act of caregiving for my mother.

Meanwhile, back to my little Man With The Funny Feet … I removed him from his stand and heard something crinkle. I looked closer. There was a piece of white, folded tissue paper tucked under his coat. Was it protecting him from the metal stand? That would indicate he may be valuable or fragile. He seemed neither. I carefully removed the paper and unfolded it.

He wasn’t ordinary at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have no idea who Mrs. Hedges was, how she came to have a doll from North Africa made in the 1940s during WWII, or why she was moved to give this doll to my mother in 1968. Mama Jo must have admired him greatly, as I do now.

I’ve named him Bahij. It means “cheerful” in Arabic. Look at him again. He’s had a long hard life, he’s traveled a great distance, and yet, he reaches out his hand in a friendly gesture.

I thank my mother for being a hoarder and doll collector. I thank her for giving me an artistic eye and a sense of the absurd. I’m sure my growing up surrounded by a captive audience of dolls eliminated the fear of public speaking most people have. I thank her for that, too. It led to a great career as a radio DJ. And all the stories I effortlessly weave about the dolls now on the shop site, they all started with this one little wooden worn-out Bahij. He now lives in a special section in the doll room: not for sale.