I’ve been searching around through old pictures trying to get them into some sort of order when I ran into this one. You may’ve read my story several months ago how the only thing I ever wanted for Christmas was a football — a simple thing, all the toy stores would have them, and they couldn’t have been all that expensive. Never in all my 93½ years did Santa EVER drop me off one, and that is why I probably told all my younger cousins that there was NO Santa Claus, so don’t bother on depending on one. I just hated those dolls that kept coming year after year.
And no wonder, when I saw my friend Lennie waltzting along on Chapman Ave. showing off his football that he had gotten for Christmas, that I promptly cold-cocked him, grabbed the football, and ran for a touchdown landing over the goal line which was under my bed.
You would also know that a little later, the doorbell would ring, announcing visitors and Mom would go to answer, and whaddya know there was Mrs. Tanner with wimp Lennie practically hiding under her skirt — and a tear-stained face. I was called to appear at the front door – AND BRING THE FOOTBALL — so I had to give up my stolen goods, and a little later having the be-jeez spanked out of me.
Let’s go back to the picture with the dolls on the chairs. Does it appear in your wildest dreams that I seem to be absolutely thrilled and acting quite motherly with that rotten, puny-looking, moth-eaten, beat-up doll? No way. And there is my little sister with an almost life-size beautiful doll, and you just know she is brimming over with motherliness, and looking so angelic while she was at it.
The Lennie episode came a few years later after I had been working out so I could hold my own against the fellas — they outnumbered the girls in our neighborhood so one has to start at an early age to know how to take care of one’s self.
MELITAS FORSTER October 23, 2011