Give Me a Big Doll

Pretending I was a movie director, or a star on the red carpet, Barbie was my go-to girl. But for everyday life? Oh, for that, give me a big doll. A doll who can talk. A sturdy doll, who already knows her ideas are more important than slender hips and an expansive closest of clothes. In 1965 Chatty Cathy was my companion, my confidant. She came with one blue dress and 18 phrases at the end of her string: “I love you. I hurt myself. Please take me with you…” I did that. I took her everywhere.

In the summer of 1966 when I was seven, we went to Whalom Park with a carload of kids. In the back of my Dad’s Ford Country Squire my cousin Scott pulled the string too hard. He broke Chatty Cathy and never said “Sorry.” Her phrases were gone, leaving only strangled syllables. My Mom said, “Let her rest while we go on the rides.” So I swaddled Chatty Cathy in a blanket and left her in the front seat where she could see outside.  When we got back to the car after the Ferris wheel and the cotton candy, we found her unhealed.

At home, I cradled my broken friend, pulled her string gently, and listened to her exclaim: “Roygan shoysush moddy doe.  Burnan trinan frotganna ray...” Suddenly I was clear: This was a language all our own. Cathy could speak her mind, and now we could talk about everything. The next time I saw Scott I said “I forgive you.” But I never told him my sturdy doll was better broken.