I never played with dolls. Couldn't understand why anyone would bother. Bor-ring!
I had a toy train set. And a Davy Crocket hat that I wore to death, even through the hot days of summer. But the most exciting present I ever received was when Mum bought me a present for doing well in my exams. "I want grass clippers" I had said without hesitation. I ran with them all the way to Pamela Toohill's place two blocks away. Thrilled to bits. Had to show them off. She wasn't impressed. Another time I asked for a garden hose. Again, I couldn't understand why my friends looked at me strangely when I waxed lyrical about it. Their problem.
My mother gave me a doll for my sixth birthday. Don't know why. It was the only doll I ever owned. Still, I never invited any of my friends over to play dolls or, in my case, doll; or house; or mummies and daddies. Not like Nancy Turner from down the road, who was remotely related to me via my Danish great grandfather. [A lot of the people in my neighbourhood were remotely related to me as the result of a Danish cohort which had moved to the area in the late 19th century - the Hansens, Andersens, Lorensens.] She had a gazillion dolls and even a pram to push them around in. She said: "Let's play dolls". I didn't know what to do with the bloody things. Those lifeless, useless things that just lie there and stare at you. She never asked me again.
I preferred my dancing black man made of painted tin. Not PC these days. But he was great. His arms and legs dangled and jangled. A post-war version of Michael Jackson.
But I wasn't a tomboy. I was sweet, timid, quiet, a "little doll" as the lady in the shop called me. I wore pretty, frilly dresses and ribbons in my hair.
Before Christmas one year, Mum took me to town to pick out my Christmas present and see Santa Claus, even though I never believed in him. [The Easter Bunny, however, was a different story.] She called it "town" and I still do, but everyone else calls it "the city" nowadays. Brisbane's grown a lot since the 1950s.
I still remember catching sight of the child-sized table and chairs. It was bare, unpainted pine, exactly what I wanted. My china tea set would look real nice on it. That Christmas morning was one of the rare times I got angry as a child. There on the verandah were my wonderful table and chairs. But Mum had got "young Colin next door" [not to be confused with his father "Big Colin", yet another remote relative] to paint them. The natural wood I loved so much had been smothered.
Blind fury! Betrayal! No words to express my hurt! My mother didn't understand me after all. Now I knew just how Jesus had felt when his mother didn't think to look for him in the temple. [A bit of poetic licence here. I had not even heard of Jesus at that age.] I grabbed one of Dad's tools and smashed into the table. Again and again and again! They didn't punish me. Why should they have? It was "her" sin. I did play with it over the coming years, but it wasn't what it could have been.
I am writing this in shorthand at my intarsia woodwork class, in between sanding small pieces of wood. A lady has just walked up to me and, admiring the cockatoo wall plaque I am making, said:
"Are you going to colour him?"
Glancing briefly at a very pointed tool, I simply smile and say sweetly: "No, I want the wood grain to show."
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