The Porcelain Doll

A repeat from about a year ago. Back with you soon, live.

When I was 9, we moved to a house in Guyton, a much smaller city about an hour from Savannah. The backyard was huge and filled with fruit bearing trees, and I attended a grammar school where one of my mother’s male cousins taught. These were in the days that teachers were allowed to paddle students as punishment for indiscretions.

One day, my teacher/cousin caught a young boy chewing gum. He called the boy to the front of the room where he paddled him as we all watched and cringed with each resounding thonk. I learned much later that my mother had asked the teacher to make sure I saw a paddling so that I would “stay in line.” I was always a good student and liked school as it got me away from home; you can believe I never even considered chewing gum or talking in class after that little demonstration. This carried over into the home too, of course, because I didn't want that teacher telling mom that I had been bad, period.

That first Christmas, my mother must have been in a good mood because I received the most beautiful doll I had ever seen. She stood about two feet tall, had porcelain face, arms and legs and was dressed in an antebellum style gown which included a matching parasol, all in a gorgeous floral print of antique roses. I loved that doll and she spent her all her time on my carefully made up bed because I didn’t want her to ever get dirty. I can still see every detail of her in my mind’s eye, she was so precious to me.


This house was very large and had hardwood floors throughout. The hallway was vast, about 12 feet wide by 25 feet long. Many a Saturday morning, I spent hand waxing that hall to a shine in which you could see your face, and then I buffed it by hand. I had to hand wax the furniture too, but only in the living room as it appeared that my mother was only concerned with what visitors would see.

My other chores were clearing up after each meal, washing and drying the dishes, and mopping the kitchen floor. By this time, my mother had had my first little sister, so I had two young children to look after and entertain while she continued to read romance magazines on the couch but, to be honest, she also did the laundry, cooked meals, and cleaned the rest of the house.

I need to digress here just a bit. I’ve thought about this a lot since my mother died when I was in my early 30s and since I began blogging. I was diagnosed with endogenous depression in my late 30s and have since endured two more bouts of this phenomenon. Since this is genetic, I was convinced my mom must have also suffered from this same chemical imbalance, or something very similar, albeit untreated. In those days, menopause was treated with Valium and this is exactly what our family physician told mom was the problem when she finally sought treatment. This was in the 50s and wasn’t an unusual practice for physicians to indiscriminately dispense Valium. When a nephew was diagnosed with a bipolar problem a few years ago, I started rethinking my mother’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personality.

But this was in the early 50s and I was a child. I had few friends because once some kid came over to my house and witnessed a Mr. Hyde incident, their parents never let them return and didn’t invite me to their house again. Of course, I played outside with other children, but it’s hard to develop a close friendship when you can’t get behind closed doors, giggle together and just plain share.

So back to the porcelain doll. On this particular Saturday in the spring, I was helping my mother make jam from some fresh fruit. My job was to hold the cheesecloth in place while she poured the cooked mixture into mason jars. I was tired because I had already waxed the hallway and was waiting on it to totally dry so that it could be buffed. I also wanted to go outside and ride my bike, hoping I would run into one of the neighborhood girls so that we could play together before it got dark.

Evidently, I let my concentration drift and pulled the cheesecloth too tight so that when my mom poured the hot liquid, it began running down the side of the jar. She screamed at me, I jumped, the jar crashed to the floor, and there was a mess to clean up.

I grabbed a dishcloth and began wiping up the sugary mixture while mom screamed obscenities at me. She could curse like a sailor and she didn’t hold back while calling me names I’m still too embarrassed on her behalf to repeat here. It took several minutes to get everything clean and back in order and while I cried the entire time, I felt thankful that she hadn’t taken the long, heavy steel spoon she had been using to my back. But she had other plans for me.

After we finished filling the jars, she calmly walked into my bedroom, took my beautiful doll off my bed and told me to follow her. I was immediately petrified but I followed her to a nearby oak tree. Her face was red and filled with loathing as she methodically beat my doll into pieces against that tree while I stood by, begging her to stop, and crying as loud as I’d ever done in my life at that time.

She then broke the parasol in two and ripped the chiffon fabric with her fingers, and then she ripped the doll’s antebellum dress into shreds. When she finished, she made me pick up all the pieces and throw them into the garbage can, then she asked me: “How does it feel to have something you love taken away from you forever?”

A personal item so beautiful, that I had loved so much, had been destroyed in a fit of rage because I had done something unintentionally wrong when I was 9 years old. After that, at least she allowed me to wallow in my sorrow, alone in my room until dinnertime.

I’ll never forget the shock on my dad’s face when she told him what happened and what she had done about it at dinner. Before bedtime, my dad came into my room and told me how sorry he was that mom had destroyed my doll. That eased the pain somewhat, but I never again was given anything to compare to that doll, and I was glad. Glad there would be nothing in my life I loved so much that could so easily be taken away with such finality.

Jane

NOTE: I sometimes write about these once painful events in my life because I hope they will help someone out there in blogland who may be on either end of this spectrum. There are many persons suffering from a mental illness that could easily be controlled if they seek professional help; I think my mother suffered from some kind of mental illness that forever went undiagnosed. If you know of a child in this kind of situation, please talk to someone who can help.