On The Eve of Dona Nobis Pacem in the Blogosphere

It is the eve of Dona Nobis Pacem in the Blogosphere; otherwise known as BlogBlast For Peace.
On Sunday November 4th, bloggers and webmasters and status-keepers everywhere will lay their pens down on white paper and social pages to write peace. Bloggers will use keyboards, singers will sing songs, artists will draw and paint, some will dance and some will preach.  All will tell a story. It's what peace bloggers do. 
Let's brew a hot cup of tea and have a chat. Peace weekend has begun!
As tradition holds, here's the story of The Doll Box as told on this blog many years ago. As was his usual custom, Papa visited one bright sunny morning and reminded me of the dusty old box. I expect him to direct me straightway into another tale come tomorrow morning. We'll have to wait and see what transpires between my world and his.
This is the story of The Doll Box.

 I wrote this peace post for theNovember 2007 BlogBlast For Peacein Papa's honor. His stories are an integral part of this movement. It has become tradition for me to share them with you during Peace Week.
And for some reason on this chilly November night as I wait for another launch of peace globes, I can almost hear him speak and hover about, waiting right along with the rest of us.  The dolls must be shared once again.
So Papa....I miss you. I love you. Speak.

The Doll Box

"Put them in the pot, Mimi, just that way."

I planted the last Black-Eyed Susan in the clay pot on the deck, richly purple, and staring at me with an eye in the center of royalty's colored fall beauty. I dug and rearranged and poured in fertilizer. Watered. Played in the dirt.

My Papa stood looming over me with that jovial smile of his, a burst of sunlight behind his balding head and a brightly gleaming twinkle in the midst of the smile I adored. I was still unbalanced with a trowel in one hand and a pile of dirt in the other which prevented me from jumping immediately into his arms, but it didn't seem to matter; a warm wind blew straight through the curl hanging down the front of my right shoulder and moved it behind me to rest on the back of my sweater. I was sure of it. My Papa was always telling me to get my hair out of my face. No surprise to me now.

"Plant one more in the pot, Mimi. She'd like it that way."

"They remind me of her," I said out loud. "The dark ones she loved best. The Black-Eyed ones I don't care for, but I plant them anyway because she loved them so. I think they look disheveled and untidy - if a flower can be that way - and as she could be in the morning times. Her hair a mess and a cigarette over coffee, frying bacon at 5am so that you'd have a great start to your day, wrinkled robe and a smelly kitchen. One bright spot of colorful charm – like my Black Eyed Susan - was you, Papa."
I stopped planting and looked up.

“I've been watching you, Mimi."
I laughed.

"Well you know she had to have things just right. Two purple here, one pink there, large petaled, small-petaled and a very straight row or you had to start all over."

He laughed.

"I remember."

I fixed my eyes upon the face of the man who held the key to my heart ever since the day I took my first breath. I put the trowel down, the dirt fell from my fingers and I found myself sitting in the fall sunlight, listening to leaves drop playfully from the trees that surrounded me. I watched them fall almost on command at his overgrown feet that were firmly planted in front of me.  

Steel-toe shoes, huge shoes, painful shoes.

Important shoes.

  It would take him forty-five minutes in the mornings before work to lace them up. Rheumatoid arthritis claimed his quality of life, pain a constant companion, everyday tasks a monumental chore - and yet he rarely missed work (thirty-three years in a furniture plant) and most days he tilled the garden out back in the evenings. For today, I was content to sit at his feet and plant flowers. He was there to give me a warm breezy hug. Of course I knew he wasn't really there.

Was he?

Resigned to never again help him unlace the knotted shoestrings that strangled too too tightly across his tender feet, I turned to wipe a tear. I miss him still.

" I've been watching you - you and the peace globes," he said.

I smiled and stood up. He was right.
Pansies could wait. 

"I know, Papa. I've known for some time. You always give me courage when I need it, inspiration when I've lost it and the biggest laughs....I get the most joy from your far-flung sense of humor. It is always with me."

 He roared a belly laugh I thought I'd never hear again this side of Heaven. It nearly rocked me off balance, causing me to drop the flat of pansies on the deck.....

so deep it was, so rich.

So Papa.

And then I realized that I was staring straight into the face of providence. Or ghostly luck. Don't stumble now, Mimi....."I need to ask you! Papa! I have so much to ask you. I don't know what to do about.....
Will you stay?" 

"I've been watching you, Mimi," he said with that tsk tsk expression, "I need to ask you a question." 
I sat down again, wondering if I'd done something wrong. He sounds serious. Does he want to talk about the marbles? Yes, that must be it. The marbles. He wants to tell me how he made them. He'll tell me and I'll tell my readers and they'll tell people and he'll explain it all. 
I waited.

I remember - oh I remember - how they adored one another
And now they were both gone.

I had her pansy pots and her azalea bush and her quirkiness. He had memories not to be shared with a granddaughter, but sacred scenes I saw playing behind the youthful grin. I did not let on. But I knew there were stories he must - he surely must - somewhere, somewhere - still share with her.  

"Ask, Papa. I'll tell you anything you want to know," digging a new opening in the dirt for one more yellow pansy. 
I just wanted to see him smile again.

"But why, Mimi.....why do you need so many?"

"Because she said if you planted enough of them really close together it would make the bouquet brighter and ...."

I sighed. Doesn't he understand?

"No, Mimi. Why do you need so many peace globes?"

I stopped digging.

"I don't NEED them, Papa, they just keep coming. From everywhere. There are so many I can't get them all  planted...er...counted. In the mail and through the strangest streets. Back alleys, front pages, small blogs, large blogs, no blogs.  In the middle of the night. In the morning. In the evenings. All colors, all creeds, all walks of life. All species, all reasons. Some humorously made, some seriously woven and others with a single signature. Those I like, too." 
He sighed. 

Had I disappointed him?

What does he want me to say?

If there's one thing about my Papa that was always the best thing, it was his deliberate ability to cut through my facade and get to the truth - usually without a word and never with a scold. Any serious conversation he made with me always came on the palpable presence of one who loved me unconditionally. I never doubted his intent for my good or his wish for my clear understanding. Laden with well-worn common sense wisdom, I soaked it up often, playing carefully at his painfully laced shoes which criss-crossed in front of me on the living room floor at the bottom of the green leather recliner he loved. And today, I felt much like that seven-year-old.
Papa had one more story to tell.

"Do you remember the dolls, Mimi? The 100 Dolls?"

" Oh yes, Papa. I still have them. I keep them in the box for safekeeping. They are in perfect condition though the box is yellowed now and torn on the edge. I still see your address, your name, the paid postage stamp and the tape."

He suddenly got a serious look.   
"I remember the day you asked me for them. We were thumbing through a catalog and you squealed with delight. 'One hundred dolls!! How could 100 dolls come in one box?' you asked." 

"I remember," I said. "They costs one dollar and we had to send away for them all the way to New Jersey and add our postage fee. I was so excited and couldn't wait to get them in the mail. I think I was seven? Yes, just about that age." 

"Open them, Mimi. They hold a secret. Open the box."

 I went inside to get the box. I'm writing this story at my usual perch at the table trying to recapture on paper what other-worldly thing has just happened in my pansy world. In my mind's eye I am still there, on the porch with my Papa and we are planting pansies and the sun is hot and the leaves are falling. My pen is flowing and I don't want to leave. We are having such a lovely day. All is right and he has chosen to visit me now. I don't want to break the spell. I don't want to open the box...but it is there in front of me on the table.

I picked it up, put my reading glasses on trying to make out the fine print. I reach for a magnifying glass to help but for some reason, I put it down. I couldn't. I couldn't look. I just couldn't. If I do as he asked then my time with him will be over and I can't stand the thought of that.  

And when have you ever been able to disobey him? Never. And when have you ever disappointed him? Sometimes. And will you do that today? No.
 I picked it up again. 

Bulk Rate. US Postage Paid. Newark, N.J. Permit No.4396.

100 Dolls Dept R
285 Market Street
Newark, N.J

What's so special about this old box of dolls? They're plastic and probably a few are missing. Pink. Flimsy. Tiny little things.

Not at all like I.....

"Right," said Papa, "you were disappointed when they arrived a few weeks later. I could see it in your face. I never forgot how cute it was when you said, 
"NOW I know how they got so many dolls in one box. They don't look like the picture in the magazine at all. They are very small and I think I might even break them." 

"So you sat at the kitchen table night after night and lined them up. Trying to figure out which was a cook and which was a nurse and which was a girl and which was a boy. I told you that they all have a face and they all have a voice, even if they are on the small side.  You made up stories to go with them and then, once you'd brought them to life, there was a sadness about the way you stored them away.
Back in the box. Back in the box. Always back in the box."

He shook his head.

This was not going to be easy. What does he want me to see? There won't be an obvious blue world-globe-like-marble sitting there this time. We're talking about prissy dolls for a prissy girl who turned into a prissy woman who has no idea why she's crying at her keyboard in the middle of this unfinished story. 

Until......

I decided to open the box.

And there it was. 

Something I'd forgotten about. On top of my dolls in the lower right corner was a matchbox size toy. He'd sent away for that too. It came with my dolls. 

Tricky Dogs. They were magnets. One white dog. One black dog. When you start to play with them they always gravitate toward each other. After forty years the magnet is still strong. I turned them over in my hands and read the back of the box. 

Directions: Place one Tricky Dog on a surface (polished wood or glass) Push the other Tricky Dog up to it from behind, or sweep the second Tricky Dog in a half circle around the first one. Watch them twirl!

My tabletop is made of glass. I took the black one and put him up front, made a sneak attack by the white one and voila! the black dog began to spin in a circle - in an energetic frenzy - and aligned itself with the other one smashing into him, wagging their magnetic tails and gravitating together: smooching, the way only magnets can. When I was little, most often I played with the dolls, but Papa......he would gently nudge me to lay aside the Barbie doll brain and chase my dream in another direction. He was like that. Always dropping life lessons in my lap, at inopportune times like today, when I am planting pansies.

I laughed. I'd forgotten the hours of entertainment we'd had trying to make the dogs do something else. I tried to separate them so many times. So like me to want to argue with electrons and atoms - but they always ended up smacking into each other with a dog collision. Inevitable. Worked every time.
Without fail.

"The globes, Papa. They all spin their own way and yet they eventually make their way towards one another, spinning together.  The globes, Papa....they all spin with one purpose. 

Is that right?"

He smiled.

Now my grownup mind understands such things. I know there really is no trick. I know they're just heavily plastered metal toys with magnet skates on the bottom - but I'm not a grownup today. I'm a seven-year-old on the floor with my Papa and we are playing from the box he mail ordered for me in the 1960s. And I am laughing. The dogs - and the dolls - and Papa....still make me laugh. 

I sighed. This observation is just too obvious. Magnets. Globes. Spinning earth balls. Earth Science. I get it! I turned to him with a knowing look and said, 

"I know all about this little analogy. I went to college and got a degree since you've been gone ya know. And anyway, I need to finish planting these pansies and get them all in a straight line the way she would....the way she would....Papa?"

Papa? 

He was gone. 

And I was left with a tabletop full of little pink dolls piled on top of each other, delighted to be free of the box, crisscrossed in a pink maze, laid crosswise in the jumbled life of another doll, too many for a seven-year-old to count, too tiny for a middle-aged woman to see in great detail and somehow I knew they'd been waiting for just this hour to make their second debut into my life. Pink. Plastic. Fragile. Soft spoken. Small. And yet when I put them all together they make an enormous pile. 

Like my globes. 

"Why Mimi? Why? Why do you need so many?"

 I never answered his question. That must be why he left. I suppose he is angry with me. I'll have to tell him another time about the blogger from Hong Kong and the man from Singapore and how Idaho met Japan and tomorrow Italy promised to email Turkey......Israel and Poland and Tennessee and how Michigan is helping Ireland make a globe and it doesn't matter how small their blogs may be they all have a face and all have a voice and they just want to speak their....oh, never mind. 
 Hmmm...It's been forty years and I still haven't played with all those dolls.
No time like the present. 

So I took them out of the box.

One by one.

A nurse, a dancer, an Indian man, two clowns, Spanish people, a ballerina, a little girl, a man speaking, a roping cowboy, a smiling cowgirl, a Buddhist monk, a Chinese man, a Mexican hat dancer, a Gypsy girl playing a tambourine, Bolero dancers, Little Bo Peep, all nationalities, all creeds, all expressions, all costumes of origin and a world of imagination at my fingertips that now played alone without the fumbling arthritic hand of the man who gave them to me so long ago.......a Peruvian girl, a small child playing ball, a colonial doll with a full skirt taking a bow (My favorite. She bowed a lot in those pre-pencil skirt days). 

I remembered how his hands were so large and gnarled, fumbling with the small creatures as they fell in his lap. I would laugh and we would start the dance again. The Buddha man would twirl with the Peruvian woman while the little boy with the ball - perhaps it was a jack-in-the-box - sat quietly in the middle of it all. They all got along in my peaceful box universe. 
The dolls in my box lived in one world, dancing and spinning around.

"I'll get that for you, Papa," I said. "The lady from Spain would like to dance with the Russian ballerina now if you don't mind....Papa!?"



I looked up from the land of pink twirling peace and saw a tear roll down his cheek to land on his steel-toed shoes. I could tell he longed for our pink doll world of friendly global dancers and I so wanted to never see him sad again.   
"My life went sailing by," he said, "like a thin silk pansy leaf falling on the wisp of a breeze. I blinked and it was gone. Not much older than you are today. So much left to do. So much left to say. Many more flowers to plant. Stars to catch. More dances to dance. My work was not done...But you knew that, didn't you, Mimi?"
I did? "All I know, Papa, is that I wasn't there that day. I canceled our outing and you left without me. You and grandmother went to the doctor and after that day I never saw you again. Not ever again. I was angry because you did not say goodbye. I was angry that I did not say goodbye. And I longed to tell you all my tales and all my stories through the years. I've waited for you to tell me what to do."  
 I put the dolls down and looked at his wisdom worn face, anxious for the answers I needed. But he had a way of making me figure it out for myself. This day was no different.   

"You do not need me to tell you what to do. I am proud of you and you are doing just fine. Just remember one thing: It takes all the dolls in the box to make the world a beautiful place, Mimi. They can't hear what the other has to say unless you introduce them to one another and set their feet to dancing. 
"Take them out of the box.

"Just take them out of the box." 

That's it? That's the secret? Take them out of the box? But what about the globes? And the marbles? I jumped up to give him a hug the way I always did but he was gone.

Again. 

 In the bottom of the box I found a piece of yellow paper. It had my name on it, folded, in my grandmother's handwriting. I opened it. It was a speech I'd made in church for a Christmas program when I was three  years old. He'd tucked it away in the bottom of my doll box. I smiled as I remembered that the best part of that day had been running down the church aisle and jumping into his white-sleeved arms for a hug and a kiss. If I ever doubted what my grandfather gave to me, and continues to instill in me even now, it is the simple power of love and a respect for all creatures large and small...

pink and Peruvian.

And that, my friends, is all we need.

*********



The Doll Box was written for  BlogBlast For Peace in November 2007. It is now time for Dona Nobis Pacem in the Blogosphere 2018. I never know what I'm going to write until the last minute. Some strange sort of sensation hits me about the stroke of midnight on the eve of each launch. That's when Papa shows up, nudges my memory and honors me with a story.

First it was marbles, then pansies and dolls. 
And one year he told me a love story.

I wonder what he'll have to say on Saturday...or if he'll come at all. 
Maybe I'd better get some sleep. 
It could be a long - very long - night.

Reason #4 to Blog4Peace: The magic of dolls. And love. And dolls. And love.

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