Class Photo

My sister and I would laugh and laugh when we looked at this class photo. We especially like the little boy in the bottom right row. He has a black eye. Then there is the girl with the book. She is standing right above the "fighter" at the end of the row.

Then if you look carefully, at the row third up from the bottom, at approximately the middle, you will see my mother carrying her doll. She loved dolls. When she married my father, she wanted to bring all of her dolls with her. But fortunately for my father, her mother discouraged her from that.

I was not especially a doll person and the last doll I received was when I was eleven. It was at Christmastime. My mother and my sister and I went to Berkeley to this wonderful toy store. Now remember, I was eleven going on twelve. I had an older sister, which makes younger siblings aspire to be older. I remember being told to wait in the car, while they went into the store. I knew in my bones that they were going to pick out a doll for me.

By this time I was using the treadle sewing machine to make things for myself and fix my clothes up to my standard. I suppose that if it had been now, I would have tried punk and it was a few years before the hippie look, but I dressed myself.

There I am, sitting in the car, wondering if I can pull off the surprised look when I opened up the box. It was going to be a stretch but I felt I could do it. Both my mother and sister loved dolls. I would have loved an "artist set" full of watercolors, pastels, charcoal and paper. Or best of all, a kitten!

Well, Christmas morning came. I think I pulled it off but thankfully I never received another doll. To me, it was ugly. However, I never got another doll.

But then I am not a doll person.