A Little Too Much Love

When I was about six or seven, I was going to have a birthday party! My cousin, Wendy, (the double-cousin who is only one month older than I am) called me on the phone one day to ask me if I'd rather have a doll or . . .

hmm . . . something else. A game, maybe? I really don't remember.

Anyway, I didn't know what to tell her. I had been taught that it was not polite to ask someone for a present, but Wendy was asking me what I wanted. So I asked my mom what I should say, and she said to tell my cousin to get whatever she thought was best. And I did.

But after we hung up I instantly had a change of heart. I called Wendy right back and asked her for a doll (which made my mom tell me I had very bad manners).

On the day of the birthday party Wendy showed up with a big, prettily-wrapped box. And inside was the only present I remember getting that day: an orange-haired, green-eyed, boy doll called "Georgie." (I just called him George.)

George and Georgette
It looks like someone cut this Georgie's hair.

George was my very favorite, most played-with doll of all time. And that's saying something because I loved my dolls. Wendy had George's twin, Georgette, and when I slept over at Wendy's house George went with me; when she slept over at my house Georgette came along so we could play "George and Georgette."  I played with George almost every time I had friends over to my house. A couple years later my mom got me the blond-haired, blue-eyed version of Georgette—then my friends and I played "George and Georgette" too. But even though I loved my new Georgette, George was still my favorite.

This is what my George looked like when I pulled
him out of storage a few months ago.

After I learned to ride a bike, George went on a ride with me (tied to the back of the seat by his legs). Some of his premature hair-loss is due to a fall from the bike and the short dragging that followed. More of his hair—and his eyelashes—fell out when I tried to clean up his road-rash.

I remember watching in distress and horror as his eyelashes 
slid over his face and ran down the drain!

When his soft body started tearing from all the love it got, I stitched it back together.

When I was about ten or eleven I took apart his worn-out clothes and used them as a pattern to make him a new outfit.

 Not bad, but if you look at it closely it does kind of 
look like a ten-year-old made it.
The gingham ribbon at the neck was too frayed to 
replace, and I had a thing against buttons, 
so I never sewed them back on either.

When I got too big to play with dolls George (and Georgette) sat in the place of honor, on my pillow, every day for years and years—maybe even until I got married.

I loved them!

So what would ever possess me to take this best-beloved doll, the favorite toy of my childhood, whom I've kept safe (if you don't count all the childish rough-housing) for over forty years, and tear him limb from limb and yank out all his hair?

Was it the morbid pleasure of taking macabre pictures?

Was it just sheer ghoulishness?

What ever came over me?

Well . . . I blame it on the internet and YouTube.

I recently discovered (while searching for an orange wig for George) that I could actually re-root his hair, and I learned where to buy the hair too. And I am so excited! I have high, high hopes of restoring George to all of his original cuteness. And then he will be here for my grandbabies to love to death, too. (Note to my kids: get married and start having babies!)

And so, soon, very soon, I will complete the rehabilitation of George. Yay!