I have always loved dolls.
Baby dolls.
Flower, necklace, pop bottle, storybook Kiddles.
Barbies.
Walking and talking dolls.
Chrissy and Velvet dolls (which I've never owned - yet. But I did have a smaller "Mikki" doll whose hair grew the same way).
Dawn dolls.
Paper dolls: perforated, with tabs or magnets, and even those cut from store catalogues.
My sister and I had dozens of story arcs for our dolls: Janice and Joey, Mary and Sherry, Rock Flower storyline that involved poppies (don't ask). The list goes on.
A few months ago, I found "Nancy," one of my original dolls on Etsy.
More specifically, I found an exact replica. My Nancy had a smashed thumb, and I have no idea what happened to her.
Now I'd named Nancy as a very little girl for an older third cousin, since my cache of names I'd encountered in my short life was small.
I'd had another one named after a relative - or the relative of a relative. Her name was Lynne. She had a plastic head and limbs and a cloth body. Lynne developed a rip, so I handed her over for repair. I never saw her again.
And I don't remember who Lynne was.
But I did buy Nancy off Etsy, and she came in her original pink dress. I hadn't held her in more than forty years.
My kids think she looks creepy.
But they don't understand.
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