CREEK ROAD GANG
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Maggie and Me
Kate Lydoncopyright 2010
Maggie Mix-Up, the best doll I ever had, came to me in a season of sadness.
A few weeks after my eleventh birthday, my family left the home I’d known all my life. I hadn’t met Maggie yet when we moved to a rented apartment in a new town. My old home, friends, extended family, school and haunts of those first eleven years still existed, not even ten miles away, but adult issues had swept them from my life. My new bedroom, which I shared with my baby brother, had walls of battleship grey, a dismal color which matched my unhappy mood.
There were sparks of light – the ocean was half a block away. I could smell it when I walked out the door of our apartment, see it as I walked to school, hear it when I sat on the sea wall, taste it in the mist, feel it as I ran in late September across the rocks and sand to wade in the cold salt water. I played house on the jetty, collected shells for dishes, sat on a large, light-colored slab of granite I called my couch and watched the waves rise and fall, advance, and pull back.
I made friends in my new neighborhood and in my new school, but I didn’t understand them. My new sixth grade girlfriends took ballroom dancing lessons after school and talked of crushes, going steady, and making out. I didn’t ask my parents if I could take dancing lessons; I knew we couldn’t afford it. As to crushes, I’d had a crush on a boy at home in fifth grade, and I think he liked me a little too. Now that we’d moved, I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. I knew going steady meant having a boyfriend who went out just with you, not with other girls, and you agreed not to go out with other boys too. I expected I’d be the right age for that someday, but I didn’t think it would start in sixth grade. I couldn’t imagine my friends from home were going steady with boys yet, and I was startled to discover that my new friends sometimes did. My new friends wanted to make out with boys too. I didn’t know what making out meant. Embarrassed to admit my ignorance, I pretended I knew, and eventually I figured it out.
When I went to my new friends’ homes, they didn’t have their dolls sitting on shelves in their bedrooms, and they didn’t take dolls out of their closets. They never mentioned dolls, so I never mentioned them either. Instead, my girlfriends and I listened to music, combed our hair, put on stretchy headbands, and walked along the beach talking about boys. I picked out a boy to like in my class. I liked him because he was cute and got into lots of mischief and had the same nickname as my father. I never told him I liked him, and my friends never told him. If he ever noticed me, he never mentioned it.
At home, though, there was no one to play with. I had four brothers, all younger than I. We had played together when we were younger, but we didn’t do that anymore.
Instead, I played with my dolls.
I don’t remember much of that Christmas, and had little time to play in that dismal apartment with the new Madame Alexander doll I got on Christmas morning. The day after Christmas, my mother gave us each a shopping bag and instructed us to follow her and grab anything that fell. She then picked up our Christmas tree and carried it out of the house, up the street to Shore Drive, two blocks over to Coral, and half a block down to our new house. Our Christmas tree was the first thing we moved into our new home.
I loved our new house. I still had to share a room with the baby, but the walls in the new bedroom were a faded pink, not dark grey, and from my window, I could see the ocean.
It was in that house that my new doll Maggie Mix-Up and I became friends.
She was fifteen and a half inches tall, with straight red hair and bangs. There was a scattering of freckles across the pale skin of her cheeks, and her eyes were green. She was dressed in an odd outfit: a bright pink skirt, a white blouse decorated with tiny rickrack in pastel colors, a white straw hat with a broad green ribbon, and green tights. I loved her at first sight.
My hair was sandy-colored, not red, but it was straight like Maggie’s. I could never get my hair to stay in a flip for more than an hour, and my mother always cut my bangs way too short. I was never dressed right either. My friends had black stretch pants and cute dresses and stylish outfits of matching skirts and blouses and sweaters, but I was never fashionable. I was mixed up too.
Maggie and I were kindred souls.
I kept it a secret from my more grown-up sixth grade friends, but in my alone times, I played with Maggie. She had adventures more perilous than the events of any fairy tale. When evil loomed, she might have to travel alone through a dark and threatening forest to get help, but she’d go, unafraid, or at least acting like she wasn’t afraid. She’d sleep on the ground if she had to, maybe making a bed of dead leaves for herself, but she’d never turn back until she had saved the day. Sometimes no one else could help her, and she had to do everything by herself, but she’d rescue everyone, she’d defeat any villain, she’d get whatever was needed and bring it back across the dangerous woods just in time. She might suffer along the way, but she never lost her determination, and she always triumphed in the end.
Through the rest of sixth grade, then seventh grade, and, though less often, even in eighth grade, I played with Maggie. By ninth grade, I moved on, although Maggie still held a place of honor, sitting on top of my bookcase, from which she too could see the ocean. I imagined that someday, I would give her to my little girl when I had one, and she would love Maggie just as I did.
It was not to be.
When I went away to college, my mother packed up my belongings and stored them in the basement so that a younger brother could have my bedroom. Sometimes on vacations, I’d go into the cellar and look at my old things.
Maggie remained there with my other dolls and papers and odds and ends when I went off to graduate school. I know she believed I’d come back for her. She was not a girl who’d get discouraged and lose faith.
My second year of graduate school, there was a massive winter storm on the east coast. For the first time in our experience, my parents’ home was threatened by the ocean. Salt water filled the basement, but the rest of the house was spared.
Along with my parents’ furnace and the washer and drier, all my dolls were lost. I mourned poor brave, faithful Maggie Mix-Up.
Years later, when my now-grown children were born, my first was a girl, a redhead with green eyes. I was surprised when she didn’t enjoy playing with dolls, but I’ve always imagined she would have loved Maggie anyway. My daughter has the same kind of spirit that Maggie always had.
I still think about Maggie, my companion through hard times.
And now, when I think of it, I’m sure she wasn’t the kind of girl who could be defeated easily by a bad storm. Not Maggie. I imagine before she was swept away by waves, she would have grabbed a piece of wood to keep herself afloat. Somewhere, even now, she may be resting on a bed of dried leaves in some distant forest, planning her triumphant return to me.
I’ll wait as long as it takes.
Addendum, Christmas Day 2010: Maggie Mix-Up, dear friend, companion and heroine of my younger days, has returned to me; a bit worse for the wear, and in a different outfit, but she's home. My husband was able to track her down and arrange for her release and passage. Poor girl! She had to make her trip from Chicago back to me in a cardboard box which, strangely enough, reeked of cigarette smoke. I've cleaned her carefully, and washed and mended her clothing. I'm already planning her new wardrobe. But those are petty details. The important thing is that we are at last reunited. Maggie and I have much to talk about. I will give her whatever care she needs, and lots of time to recuperate.
And then we’ll start on our next round of adventures.
A few weeks after my eleventh birthday, my family left the home I’d known all my life. I hadn’t met Maggie yet when we moved to a rented apartment in a new town. My old home, friends, extended family, school and haunts of those first eleven years still existed, not even ten miles away, but adult issues had swept them from my life. My new bedroom, which I shared with my baby brother, had walls of battleship grey, a dismal color which matched my unhappy mood.
There were sparks of light – the ocean was half a block away. I could smell it when I walked out the door of our apartment, see it as I walked to school, hear it when I sat on the sea wall, taste it in the mist, feel it as I ran in late September across the rocks and sand to wade in the cold salt water. I played house on the jetty, collected shells for dishes, sat on a large, light-colored slab of granite I called my couch and watched the waves rise and fall, advance, and pull back.
I made friends in my new neighborhood and in my new school, but I didn’t understand them. My new sixth grade girlfriends took ballroom dancing lessons after school and talked of crushes, going steady, and making out. I didn’t ask my parents if I could take dancing lessons; I knew we couldn’t afford it. As to crushes, I’d had a crush on a boy at home in fifth grade, and I think he liked me a little too. Now that we’d moved, I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. I knew going steady meant having a boyfriend who went out just with you, not with other girls, and you agreed not to go out with other boys too. I expected I’d be the right age for that someday, but I didn’t think it would start in sixth grade. I couldn’t imagine my friends from home were going steady with boys yet, and I was startled to discover that my new friends sometimes did. My new friends wanted to make out with boys too. I didn’t know what making out meant. Embarrassed to admit my ignorance, I pretended I knew, and eventually I figured it out.
When I went to my new friends’ homes, they didn’t have their dolls sitting on shelves in their bedrooms, and they didn’t take dolls out of their closets. They never mentioned dolls, so I never mentioned them either. Instead, my girlfriends and I listened to music, combed our hair, put on stretchy headbands, and walked along the beach talking about boys. I picked out a boy to like in my class. I liked him because he was cute and got into lots of mischief and had the same nickname as my father. I never told him I liked him, and my friends never told him. If he ever noticed me, he never mentioned it.
At home, though, there was no one to play with. I had four brothers, all younger than I. We had played together when we were younger, but we didn’t do that anymore.
Instead, I played with my dolls.
I don’t remember much of that Christmas, and had little time to play in that dismal apartment with the new Madame Alexander doll I got on Christmas morning. The day after Christmas, my mother gave us each a shopping bag and instructed us to follow her and grab anything that fell. She then picked up our Christmas tree and carried it out of the house, up the street to Shore Drive, two blocks over to Coral, and half a block down to our new house. Our Christmas tree was the first thing we moved into our new home.
I loved our new house. I still had to share a room with the baby, but the walls in the new bedroom were a faded pink, not dark grey, and from my window, I could see the ocean.
It was in that house that my new doll Maggie Mix-Up and I became friends.
She was fifteen and a half inches tall, with straight red hair and bangs. There was a scattering of freckles across the pale skin of her cheeks, and her eyes were green. She was dressed in an odd outfit: a bright pink skirt, a white blouse decorated with tiny rickrack in pastel colors, a white straw hat with a broad green ribbon, and green tights. I loved her at first sight.
My hair was sandy-colored, not red, but it was straight like Maggie’s. I could never get my hair to stay in a flip for more than an hour, and my mother always cut my bangs way too short. I was never dressed right either. My friends had black stretch pants and cute dresses and stylish outfits of matching skirts and blouses and sweaters, but I was never fashionable. I was mixed up too.
Maggie and I were kindred souls.
I kept it a secret from my more grown-up sixth grade friends, but in my alone times, I played with Maggie. She had adventures more perilous than the events of any fairy tale. When evil loomed, she might have to travel alone through a dark and threatening forest to get help, but she’d go, unafraid, or at least acting like she wasn’t afraid. She’d sleep on the ground if she had to, maybe making a bed of dead leaves for herself, but she’d never turn back until she had saved the day. Sometimes no one else could help her, and she had to do everything by herself, but she’d rescue everyone, she’d defeat any villain, she’d get whatever was needed and bring it back across the dangerous woods just in time. She might suffer along the way, but she never lost her determination, and she always triumphed in the end.
Through the rest of sixth grade, then seventh grade, and, though less often, even in eighth grade, I played with Maggie. By ninth grade, I moved on, although Maggie still held a place of honor, sitting on top of my bookcase, from which she too could see the ocean. I imagined that someday, I would give her to my little girl when I had one, and she would love Maggie just as I did.
It was not to be.
When I went away to college, my mother packed up my belongings and stored them in the basement so that a younger brother could have my bedroom. Sometimes on vacations, I’d go into the cellar and look at my old things.
Maggie remained there with my other dolls and papers and odds and ends when I went off to graduate school. I know she believed I’d come back for her. She was not a girl who’d get discouraged and lose faith.
My second year of graduate school, there was a massive winter storm on the east coast. For the first time in our experience, my parents’ home was threatened by the ocean. Salt water filled the basement, but the rest of the house was spared.
Along with my parents’ furnace and the washer and drier, all my dolls were lost. I mourned poor brave, faithful Maggie Mix-Up.
Years later, when my now-grown children were born, my first was a girl, a redhead with green eyes. I was surprised when she didn’t enjoy playing with dolls, but I’ve always imagined she would have loved Maggie anyway. My daughter has the same kind of spirit that Maggie always had.
I still think about Maggie, my companion through hard times.
And now, when I think of it, I’m sure she wasn’t the kind of girl who could be defeated easily by a bad storm. Not Maggie. I imagine before she was swept away by waves, she would have grabbed a piece of wood to keep herself afloat. Somewhere, even now, she may be resting on a bed of dried leaves in some distant forest, planning her triumphant return to me.
I’ll wait as long as it takes.
* * *
Addendum, Christmas Day 2010: Maggie Mix-Up, dear friend, companion and heroine of my younger days, has returned to me; a bit worse for the wear, and in a different outfit, but she's home. My husband was able to track her down and arrange for her release and passage. Poor girl! She had to make her trip from Chicago back to me in a cardboard box which, strangely enough, reeked of cigarette smoke. I've cleaned her carefully, and washed and mended her clothing. I'm already planning her new wardrobe. But those are petty details. The important thing is that we are at last reunited. Maggie and I have much to talk about. I will give her whatever care she needs, and lots of time to recuperate.
And then we’ll start on our next round of adventures.
* * *
Biographical Note:
Kate Lydon is a storyteller, writer and editor who at times hires out as
an
adjunct professor. She grew up along the rocky coast of Massachusetts,
but has lived most of her life amid the trees of Pennsylvania.
Daughter of a man who made the best donuts in the world and a woman who
acted out Macbeth and read poetry for her children, Kate is the oldest
of five, and thus is prone to giving advice. However, her husband, two
children, two cats and one dog, independent souls all, pay scant
attention, and so she writes. Kate’s
satirical murder mystery, Off
Center, is now available through Amazon’s Kindle Store.
She is currently working on another novel, as well as a book of
stories about visits her grandparents Papa and Eva. See the Author Index for Prose L-Z and the Author Index for Poetry for more of
Kate's writing.
