hey, read my creative non fiction paper.
I was less that a year old when I picked up a doll in a toy store in Italy and wouldn’t put it down. It was a baby doll with realistic amber eyes, a bald head, a soft body and perfectly formed hands and feet. She was wearing a pair of white and pink striped pajamas, and her name was Picalina. For the next four years, I carried her everywhere with me. She’s flown from Europe to America and back several times, been to the hospital for measles, the emergency room for a dog bite and has helped me through countless trials since. Her wardrobe rivals my own, she’s as recognized in my family as easily as I am, and she still sleeps in my bed every night. Most of my early childhood memories have Picalina in them somewhere, and she’s present in the few memories I have of my grandma Kathleen, or Sookie as we all called her.
When I was little, Picalina and Sookie were my best friends, and my cousin Katie was my worst enemy. Katie lived to torture me. She called me names, bit me, pinched me, and in one particularly rough exchange ripped an ear off my teddy bear. When I was three, maybe four, years old Katie kidnapped Pica from her lawn chair while I was playing in our grandparents’ pool. I immediately jumped out and chased after her, recalling Fred the bear’s tragic ear loss, and knowing what she was capable of. She ran inside through the kitchen and up the back “servant’s” stairs to the second floor to avoid adult resistance in the living room. I tore after her, still wet from the pool. I slipped on the varnished wooden stairs as I rounded the first floor corner landing. I could see her fist clamped around Pica’s leg, pulling on the blue sundress Sookie had made for her.
When Katie reached the second floor, she ducked into the second door on the left, the bathroom. She slammed the door, locked me out, and proceeded to attempt to flush Picalina down the toilet. I tried the door, pounded on it for a few seconds, then continued down the hallway to the main stairs and into the den. In the den, between sobs, I told my grandpa what Katie was doing. He lacked interest in the situation and sent me to Sookie. Sookie immediately took charge, pausing only to grab the skeleton key and a yardstick. Even though she was already ailing from the cancer that would kill her less than two years later, I couldn’t keep up with her as she charged up the stairs. Once she reached the second story bathroom, she unlocked the door and charged in. She grabbed Katie with one hand, and pulled Picalina out of the toilet with the other. Katie received a whack with the yardstick, a firm reprimand, and was banished to the girls’ bedroom for the rest of the afternoon. Sookie and I spent the rest of the day drying Picalina. Sookie made us all chicken soup and tea, so that Picalina wouldn’t catch a cold.
Sookie saved Picalina and me from a variety of other catastrophes, most involving Katie. One afternoon Katie threw Pica down the clothes chute, and I dove after her without hesitation. I had my arm in a cast for weeks, and Sookie helped me papier-mache a matching cast for Picalina. When I caught chicken pox, my parents quarantined me at Sookie’s house because my dad hadn’t had them. Sookie and I used a red sharpie to give Picalina chicken pox in the same places I had them. The chicken pox scars on my face match the red dots that remain on Pica to this day. Sookie would sew matching church outfits for me and Pica, and in every Christmas picture, Picalina matches me and my cousins, all of us in Sookie’s special Christmas outfits. When Sookie did laundry, I got to use a wash tub and washboard and do Pica’s laundry too. The scent of the detergent Sookie used still lingers on Pica, along with the strange sweet scent of the plastic she’s made of. Holding Pica and taking a deep breath, I can almost close my eyes and be back in the laundry room at my grandparents’ house.
Even though it’s just a doll, Picalina is still my strongest connection to my grandmother, and I think that’s the way Sookie would have wanted it. The last thing my grandmother sewed was a black dress for Picalina, the week the sent her home from the hospital, when there was nothing else they could do. I held Picalina all through the funeral, her in the black dress Sookie had made. I think it actually helped me to understand what was happening. Before I can remember, Sookie embroidered my full name, Megan Mary Kathleen Golden Bohlke, on the cloth of Picalina’s back. I used to run my fingers over the embroidery, feeling the texture of the raised stitches. The thread isn’t really pink anymore, and the “B” is unraveling, but it’s still there, and it feels the same.
When I was little, Picalina and Sookie were my best friends, and my cousin Katie was my worst enemy. Katie lived to torture me. She called me names, bit me, pinched me, and in one particularly rough exchange ripped an ear off my teddy bear. When I was three, maybe four, years old Katie kidnapped Pica from her lawn chair while I was playing in our grandparents’ pool. I immediately jumped out and chased after her, recalling Fred the bear’s tragic ear loss, and knowing what she was capable of. She ran inside through the kitchen and up the back “servant’s” stairs to the second floor to avoid adult resistance in the living room. I tore after her, still wet from the pool. I slipped on the varnished wooden stairs as I rounded the first floor corner landing. I could see her fist clamped around Pica’s leg, pulling on the blue sundress Sookie had made for her.
When Katie reached the second floor, she ducked into the second door on the left, the bathroom. She slammed the door, locked me out, and proceeded to attempt to flush Picalina down the toilet. I tried the door, pounded on it for a few seconds, then continued down the hallway to the main stairs and into the den. In the den, between sobs, I told my grandpa what Katie was doing. He lacked interest in the situation and sent me to Sookie. Sookie immediately took charge, pausing only to grab the skeleton key and a yardstick. Even though she was already ailing from the cancer that would kill her less than two years later, I couldn’t keep up with her as she charged up the stairs. Once she reached the second story bathroom, she unlocked the door and charged in. She grabbed Katie with one hand, and pulled Picalina out of the toilet with the other. Katie received a whack with the yardstick, a firm reprimand, and was banished to the girls’ bedroom for the rest of the afternoon. Sookie and I spent the rest of the day drying Picalina. Sookie made us all chicken soup and tea, so that Picalina wouldn’t catch a cold.
Sookie saved Picalina and me from a variety of other catastrophes, most involving Katie. One afternoon Katie threw Pica down the clothes chute, and I dove after her without hesitation. I had my arm in a cast for weeks, and Sookie helped me papier-mache a matching cast for Picalina. When I caught chicken pox, my parents quarantined me at Sookie’s house because my dad hadn’t had them. Sookie and I used a red sharpie to give Picalina chicken pox in the same places I had them. The chicken pox scars on my face match the red dots that remain on Pica to this day. Sookie would sew matching church outfits for me and Pica, and in every Christmas picture, Picalina matches me and my cousins, all of us in Sookie’s special Christmas outfits. When Sookie did laundry, I got to use a wash tub and washboard and do Pica’s laundry too. The scent of the detergent Sookie used still lingers on Pica, along with the strange sweet scent of the plastic she’s made of. Holding Pica and taking a deep breath, I can almost close my eyes and be back in the laundry room at my grandparents’ house.
Even though it’s just a doll, Picalina is still my strongest connection to my grandmother, and I think that’s the way Sookie would have wanted it. The last thing my grandmother sewed was a black dress for Picalina, the week the sent her home from the hospital, when there was nothing else they could do. I held Picalina all through the funeral, her in the black dress Sookie had made. I think it actually helped me to understand what was happening. Before I can remember, Sookie embroidered my full name, Megan Mary Kathleen Golden Bohlke, on the cloth of Picalina’s back. I used to run my fingers over the embroidery, feeling the texture of the raised stitches. The thread isn’t really pink anymore, and the “B” is unraveling, but it’s still there, and it feels the same.
posted by megan at 1:57 AM
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