I continued to play with Sally even when her face started to crack and pieces of the plaster-like finish chipped away -- I guess I wasn't as careful as I should have been. I regretted hurting her and became more and more distressed when I saw what I had done, so I painted her face with a clear nail polish. It didn't help - if anything, it made the blotches darker. I painted her lips and finger nails cherry red, but my clumsy little fingers couldn't keep the polish where it was supposed to go. I brushed her hair every day until pretty soon the shiny curls were gone and a sparse thatch of dull brown remained. I was sorry for Sally, but I never stopped loving her. 

When spring came that year I had my first taste of independence. Mom was busy taking care of baby Joan, and I was able to explore the new and exciting world of downtown Moose Jaw, where we had recently moved. We lived in the Hughes Block on Main Street and only a block away from Crescent Park, an incredibly beautiful place full of bridges that criss-crossed the Serpentine, winding paths along the water's edge, ducks and swans that were always waiting for bread crumbs, and snails that lined the stone walls of the small pools that were scattered throughout the park. 

I had a human best friend now - Allison, a little girl who sat next to me in Kindergarten at the old Victoria School. Allison's father owned a picture framing shop on Fairford Street behind the post office. There was another small park (now a parking lot) on the corner of Fairford and First Avenue North West, and our kingdom stretched from one park to the other, including all the back alleys. Our days were filled with exploring our kingdom. In the evenings I played with Sally and told her about our adventures, but I spent less and less time with her as I discovered the wonderful world around me.

We lived in Moose Jaw for about a year before moving back to Swift Current - my dad was a fireman for the Canadian Pacific Railway, so we had to go where the work was. Sally was still an important part of my life during those years, but more as a confident than as a playmate. I was more interested in playing with friends and putting on "shows" based on the musicals of the day.  

We moved several times over the years, and Sally came along every time. With each move I would unwrap Sally, feel a pang of guilt and sadness at her sorry state, and wrap her up again. In 1968, we moved from Moose Jaw to Saskatoon, followed five years later by a move to Kitimat and, after twenty-five years, a move to Kamloops. I had given the cedar chest to my sister several years before, but Sally came with us in the bottom drawer of an old dresser. 

Every once in a while I would take Sally out of the drawer, unwrap her, and wonder if there wasn't something I could do to make her look a bit better. I even phoned a doll hospital in Edmonton, but they told me there wasn't anything they could do to repair that type of doll. It was sad that Sally had to be hidden away.

By the time we moved to Kamloops I had accumulated a small collection of toys: bears and bunnies and dolls, even the big engine from Greg's first electric train, and a smaller one of Freddie's. It began when our Marg, Kelly's wife, made me a beautiful, plush, brown bear that played my favourite song, Over the Rainbow, when you pressed its paw, and it grew from there. 

That first Kamloops Christmas in our new house I set all the toys in front of the fireplace facing the Christmas tree. By the second Christmas I had found a few more old toys: some wooden blocks, a pair of bob skates, a small sled, and even a few pieces of the Pinocchio tea set. I thought about Sally and how sad it was that she wasn't upstairs in front of the fireplace with the other old-fashioned toys, but I left her wrapped up in the bottom drawer of the old dresser. 

 

In the year 2000, just before Christmas when I was sixty-four and a half, I looked at Sally again. Her face was cracked and the bare patches were just as unpleasant as they always had been. That's when I realized something. I wasn't so very different! My face had become wrinkled over the years, and my sun-spots reminded me of the patches on Sally's face. I was definitely showing my age, but I didn't have to hide my face. I knew that I was still the same person with or without my wrinkles and blotches. 

I decided it was time for Sally to come out of the drawer. I brought her out, bought her a new, curly brown wig, and washed and mended her gown and cap. Her new shiny curls made her look a little better, but she still wasn't pretty. It didn't matter. I sat her in a little rocker and placed her in front of the fireplace. I didn't mind when my children and grandchildren good naturedly made jokes about how ugly she was. I could see more than an old doll. When I looked at her, sixty years slipped away and I could see her the way she used to be, the times we shared together, and the comfort she gave me when I was sad. She was still my Sally.

After Christmas, I wrapped Sally up again and put her back in the bottom drawer of the old dresser. That's where she stays for most of the year. From now on, however, and for as long as I live, Sally will come out for Christmas. After all, she is my Christmas doll.

Sheila Marsh (Freddie's Mom)