The Value of A Doll

 Betsy McCall doll, 7inch, circa 1960

I recently acquired this vintage doll.  I had one like this when I was about 6 years old.  This doll could be my doll. They look so much alike.  

But I lost track of her.

You can see she is very petite.  I loved all my dolls very much.  Little Betsy was extremely precious to me.  She had a separate storage place in the house I grew up in.  It was downstairs, where mom did the laundry.  It had a window to that room, one of those high up on the wall, next to the ceiling, and a window well outside.  You could open that window from the inside to let some fresh air in, and you could lock it closed.  Inside that area was our washer and dryer, one of those huge chest freezers, which was about 8 feet in length, and full of all things frozen. Like vegetables preserved from the garden, and cuts of meat.

The laundry room had a cabinet on the wall, that was full of pieces of cloth, sewing notions, etc.  I don't know why that was in the basement, because mom sewed all her things upstairs.

Anyhow, that's where I kept Betsy.  I had a shoebox with no lid, and all her little clothes were in there, along with tiny doll furniture.

~

I recieved this vintage doll in the mail from an Ebay seller, and it was wrapped with many layers of bubble wrap.  I unwrapped her,

then the rush of emotions came.

I didn't know it then, but Betsy helped me get through some very hard days.

I see now that at that time, I felt very small.  Almost unnoticeable.  I wanted to be seen and heard, but that was unimaginable at 6.  

I cared for Betsy very gently, and she was my little companion.  I would imagine her in many adventures with me, playing house, going to town, playing in the woods behind our house.  One thing I made sure of, that she was always safe.

I think that's why I kept her in the basement, in a place no one would come looking for her.  Like me, when I would need to hide.

I hid myself when things got loud.  Under the bed, in the closet, in the basement, in the woods, in our playhouse.  Anywhere on the old homestead, where my dad grew up.

So I hid Betsy.

The only person who knew she was there, was mom.  I'd go with her when she did her laundry, and I would play while she ironed clothes.

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Eventually, all the children grew up, and one by one, left the house and the farm.

I don't know what happened to the little Betsy, left behind.  I looked and looked, when I would come home from college or work, but never found her.

So when I saw this one on Ebay, I couldn't help myself, and had her sent to my new home.

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If you ever doubt the value of a doll for your own child, don't.

You may not ever know how they're feeling about things, maybe they'll tell you when they are older, and looking back on their childhoods.

Having a doll to love is a precious thing.

My Betsy, and all my favorite dolls, helped me get through a turbulent, and sometimes cruel childhood, and kept me from being resentful and bitter.  They brought out the kindness in me, and nurtured it.