ninanevermore (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ninanevermore) wrote2008-07-24 01:54 pm
ninanevermore) wrote2008-07-24 01:54 pm
Entry tags:
Thursday - Goodbye, Dolly
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Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about the hurricane that blew into south Texas yesterday. Houston is too far north of it to get any damage, but the outer bands of the storm did bring some rain that gave my lawn got a much needed drink and made my drive in a little soggy. As far as hurricanes go, it wasn't much of one, unless you were one of those living in its path (any hurricane is major when you get a direct hit). But it blew in on my mother's 75th birthday and it made landfall bearing her pet name for me, Dolly, so bittersweet memories rode in on the storm and washed over me.
I hadn't thought about the name Dolly in a log time. No one but my mother ever called me that, which is what made it a pet name rather than a commonly used nickname. I was her only daughter out of a litter of boy children, a dolly for her play with and sew clothes for and dress pretty. As a child of the Great Depression she was full of useful skills, like sewing and making a little bit of anything go a very long ways, that my friend's baby-boomer mothers didn't have. None of my friend's mothers sewed their clothes.
I remember shopping for sewing patterns with her and then picking out fabrics so she could make dresses for me. She stopped me sewing my clothes as I got bigger because I became too restless to stand still for the fittings. It was very boring and I didn't see anything special about having clothes custom made for me when they could be bought at the store. After a few minutes of standing still while she kneeled before me with straight pins sticking clenched between her lips, I would begin to fidget and ended up getting stuck with pins a lot. Finally, when I was about 9, my mother called it quits and said I wouldn't be getting anymore doll clothes from her because it was just too much trouble.
That's what she called the clothes she made me: doll clothes for her Dolly.
No one has called me Dolly in 24 years. After she died, I was still my Daddy's little girl and, but I was no longer anyone's Dolly. No one has cared to dress me and fix my hair and make me pretty since then, and if I want those things done I take care of them myself. I had all but forgotten about the name until a storm washed it back into my consciousness.
My mother was a child of the Depression, and she liked to sew clothes for her doll. I wish I had stood still and let her for a little while longer. At the time, I thought she'd always be around and I thought I would always be someone's Dolly. But time passes, people die, and eventually even the memories of them recede into the distance until a storm of some sort comes along and washes them up for you to rediscover like a treasure from the deep.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
.
.
Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about the hurricane that blew into south Texas yesterday. Houston is too far north of it to get any damage, but the outer bands of the storm did bring some rain that gave my lawn got a much needed drink and made my drive in a little soggy. As far as hurricanes go, it wasn't much of one, unless you were one of those living in its path (any hurricane is major when you get a direct hit). But it blew in on my mother's 75th birthday and it made landfall bearing her pet name for me, Dolly, so bittersweet memories rode in on the storm and washed over me.
I hadn't thought about the name Dolly in a log time. No one but my mother ever called me that, which is what made it a pet name rather than a commonly used nickname. I was her only daughter out of a litter of boy children, a dolly for her play with and sew clothes for and dress pretty. As a child of the Great Depression she was full of useful skills, like sewing and making a little bit of anything go a very long ways, that my friend's baby-boomer mothers didn't have. None of my friend's mothers sewed their clothes.
I remember shopping for sewing patterns with her and then picking out fabrics so she could make dresses for me. She stopped me sewing my clothes as I got bigger because I became too restless to stand still for the fittings. It was very boring and I didn't see anything special about having clothes custom made for me when they could be bought at the store. After a few minutes of standing still while she kneeled before me with straight pins sticking clenched between her lips, I would begin to fidget and ended up getting stuck with pins a lot. Finally, when I was about 9, my mother called it quits and said I wouldn't be getting anymore doll clothes from her because it was just too much trouble.
That's what she called the clothes she made me: doll clothes for her Dolly.
No one has called me Dolly in 24 years. After she died, I was still my Daddy's little girl and, but I was no longer anyone's Dolly. No one has cared to dress me and fix my hair and make me pretty since then, and if I want those things done I take care of them myself. I had all but forgotten about the name until a storm washed it back into my consciousness.
My mother was a child of the Depression, and she liked to sew clothes for her doll. I wish I had stood still and let her for a little while longer. At the time, I thought she'd always be around and I thought I would always be someone's Dolly. But time passes, people die, and eventually even the memories of them recede into the distance until a storm of some sort comes along and washes them up for you to rediscover like a treasure from the deep.
a treasure from the deep.
Re: a treasure from the deep.
no subject
Happy 75th, Aunt Ruby!
no subject