The Prettiest Little Doll in the World....

When I was a child in elementary school, I had two favorite toys. Every day, they sat on my perfectly made bed, (Lest you think I was a freakishly tidy child, the daily making of my bed was strictly enforced by my older sister who was a freakishly tidy child.) and at night they slept in the doll crib--with mosquito netting made from an old window sheer.
One was a stuffed Cocker Spaniel named Dandy, a Christmas present from my maternal grandparents, and the other was this little baby doll. He had been salvaged and pieced together by an elderly woman in the church. I loved him from the first, and named him Timothy William.

Years later my daughter, Carina, played with him, re-naming him Melissa and dressing him all in pink and ruffles.  During this time, at least once, he was submerged in a bathtub or a pool. I'm not sure who the culprit was, but, unbeknownst to me, the metal mechanisms that operated the eyes began to rust and the doll began to go blind. He was relegated to the attic, where his condition worsened by the year. When I re-discovered him, he was in no shape for bequeathing to any heirs. 

I removed the eyes in pieces with a hemostat, hoping I could buy new eyes and pop them into the front. That proving impossible, I cut open the back of the eye-pouches inside the head, took out the rusted mechanisms and glued the new eyes in with a glue gun. Then I cleaned the skin as well as I could and offered him to my grand-daughter.

Mimsy decided he was a girl--at least that was the "closest anatomically". She named him Nancy and smothered him with kisses. I think he's in good hands. Now I just have to find Dandy.

Erratic, Luminous, Omen

The job of toy advertisers is to make toys look fun. Little children, beholding a picture of other children laughing and dancing wildly as they play with the toy,  are drawn to the promise of future thrills.  My grandson brought a new toy with him for this summer visit, and since the weather was warm, we had to try it out the first afternoon.


There is is: an inflatable ball connected to a hose.
In theory, the water flows through special channels on the outside of the ball, making it bounce erratically all over the grass, chase screaming children, and bring the joy of cooling sprays. Sitting quietly on the lawn, luminous in the summer heat, it did seem like something that would provide at least thirty minutes of gleeful entertainment.

But there were problems. First, the ball refused to dance all over; it just sat there and spewed water.
Ah! it seems the movements portrayed on the box were initiated by the children. In short, they had thrown it up into the air.

Now it's hard to grab and throw a sprinkler when your arms are "child-short". Zaya got around that problem by kicking the ball, an adaptation that worked--for a minute or two. Then the cord twisted; the water supple stopped; the ball just sat there.

It took five minutes for me to untwist the cord which was a convoluted mess. Finally, the water began to spout again while he kicked and shouted whee! (obviously something one was supposed to do while playing with toy--according to the picture on the outside of the box). Then the hose kinked and the water stopped. Zaya helped with the untwisting, shivering in the wind. This cycle was repeated about five times before he announced that he was tired, cold, and ready to do something else, like read a good Foxtrot comic book.  


 
Meanwhile, Mim had been observing the entire scenario from the dry safety of the porch swing, reluctant to get sprayed in the face. I feared her sad face was an omen of a melt-down to come, so  I consoled her with a promise that she could hook up the spray gun and water the flowers.

Zaya came and sat beside us. He had only one comment: "Dumber than advertised!"
At least he was still smiling.

The toy is sitting out on the grass. I'm using it to water the lawn on a rare, windless day in Western Oklahoma.