“The
Green Castle Dolls”
When
I was ten years old, my sister married and left home. This was a traumatic
event for me, for my only sister, and the oldest of my siblings was my
childhood hero, friend, confidant, nurturer and protector. I can still remember
midnight picnics laid out in the middle of our bed, with Bobbie Jo holding a
flashlight under the covers, as we giggled, nibbling on graham crackers, and
sipping Pepsies that she had smuggled past mama, and hidden in a hat box tucked
deep within the closet. In my estimation, my sister hung the moon, and it broke
my heart when she left home. I was instantly catapulted headlong into a
position I was far too young to manage. My mother was a quadriplegic, so as a
result most of the household’s duties transferred to my shoulders. This left
very little play time and I seemingly grew up over night.
My
three brothers were exempt from most housekeeping chores such as laundry and
cleaning, the only exception being the cooking, which fell to my oldest
brother.
Because
my mother was a partially paralyzed as a result of Polio, we children had to
assume more responsibility.
By
late afternoon on most days, I would finish my work as quickly as possible, so
I could enjoy some free time. I would then run the two blocks to the playground
and swing.
At the end of our street on the corner lot
stood a stately house that looked more like a castle than a residential home.
This mansion (or so I thought it to be) most assuredly looked out of place in
the lower class neighborhood where I lived. It stood like a grand duchess
amongst peasants. I was sure this shabby chic, was a leftover from an earlier
era when this section of town was affluent.
However its heyday had long faded away, and
most homes were now in disrepair or vacant dusty weed infested lots, and… in
fact, the house I then lived in, was vacated within the year, as it was razed
to the ground to make room for a cross town expressway.
Many
years later I returned to that neighborhood, and found an entrance ramp to the
freeway where my house had rested. The large tree that stood in our backyard
had been spared, and stood precariously close to the road bent with age, and
weatherworn like an elderly woman with her gnarled arms, hugging her torso;
trying to muster the courage to cross. A few tenacious boards still clung to
the side, evidence of the tree house that my brothers built one bygone summer.
This
marvelous house always intrigued me. It reminded me of the “Emerald City” in
the “Wizard of Oz” movie.
There
at the end of the yellow brick road stood that magical city, sparkling like a
mirage in the distance, as Dorothy and her friends are running through the
poppy fields...dancing in excitement at the realization that they have finally
arrived.
Like
an emerald ball gown this citadel was hugged by a glassed-in wraparound porch.
Enormous double entrance doors graced the front and beckoned to a perfectly
manicured yard, graduating to a mystical botanical garden.
The
rear courtyard overflowed with statues, and was complete with a charming fish
pond tucked in a honeysuckled corner surrounded by heavily ornate benches.
Intricate rot iron fencing ran the perimeter of the property, and concluded
with an elaborate gate detailed with a gothic flamboyance.
Gazing
upward my eyes traveled the two story walls drinking in the opulence of gabled
trim and vine covered balconies perched nonchalantly outside of heavily draped
windows. The material that this manor was constructed of was a mystery to me.
It appeared like green marble, yet when the sun reflected off its amazing sides
it looked iridescent, with sparkles. I was enchanted and felt that I had been spirited
away to a fairyland continuation. I often wondered about the people that lived
inside, and had decided that they must be rich, and of course perfect.
I
daydreamed about living in this bastion, and interestingly, I was soon to meet
the barely teen girl that lived there, and be ushered inside this delightful
palace.
I
missed my sister so much that the prospect of an older girlfriend/imitation
sister was like a medicinal suave, but I was very vulnerable and soon to
discover a harsh lesson from life.
Her
name was Becky, and over the next few weeks, I spent as much of my free time as
I could with my new companion in her fairytale bedroom in the green castle.
I
was delighted to find that the inside was just as wondrous as the outside. Her
bedroom was charming and every young girls dream, complete with canopy bed, and
replenish with all the trimmings. A
sweet delicate tea set was always an afternoon delight, specially prepared and
efficiently delivered by a uniformed maid. The sweet pastries and elaborate concoctions
were of a kind such as I had never tasted before. However, the best part of the
afternoon was the time spent playing with the dozens of Barbie dolls that Becky
owned.
We wiled away many a rainy afternoon dressing
our dolls in stylish outfits, although most of my Barbie doll clothes were
handmade or discards from my older cousins.
One day when I arrived at Becky's house, she
eagerly pulled me in, and we ran up the stairs to her room. Spread across her
bed were 6 packages of brand-new Barbie doll outfits. As we began to open them,
Becky's mother entered the room.
She looked at Becky with a puzzled expression
and said “where did these doll clothes come from”? Becky evenly replied, “They
belong to Claudia”.
I
was stunned, and my mouth dropped open, however, one look from Becky silenced
me. Becky’s mother left the room, and I turned and blurted out incredulously,
“why did you say that”? She replied, “Because, I am giving them to you!” She
then scooped them into a paper grocery bag and hurried me down the stairs and
out the doors. She told me that I had to go because they were leaving. It never
occurred to me that she was lying, or that the accessories were stolen.
I
could not believe my good fortune, and running breathlessly home, I plopped
down on the living room couch, and began to pull my new Barbie doll wardrobe
from the bag.
As
my mother passed through the room, she noticed the scattered packages and asked
me where they came from. I excitedly related the story of the unexpected treasures,
but I quickly realized from my mother’s perplexed expression that something was
indeed amiss. Looking back, I now understand that I was very naïve. My mother
calmly told me to re-bag the items, and then she turned and picked up the
phone.
Fear
gripped my heart, yet I still did not fully comprehend the circumstances.
Returning the receiver to its cradle she told me to take the bag of Barbie doll
clothes back to Becky.
That
one block walk felt like an eternity, for my legs were heavy with weighted
dread. Somehow I knew that Becky was in trouble, and that I was part of the
problem.
I
also discerned in my heart, that our friendship was coming to an abrupt end.
Becky's mother met me at the entrance, coldly took the bag, and shut the
door.
I
was never to be invited into the enchanted green castle again. I concluded in
that moment, that things are not always as they appear. That even behind the
shiniest of castle walls can lurk the hidden imperfections of perfect people. I
had been an unwitting partner to a criminal act, a scapegoat. I was not punished,
and my mother, upon my return, explained in plain words the painful truth.
I
lost some childish innocence that day, and gave birth to suspicion and doubt.
The cocoon of my sandcastle world had been breached, and the open drawbridge of
trust began to slowly close .This malady of distrust was to linger in the
shadows of my mind for many years, at times trying to resurrect its hold in my
life. However… I have since come to recognize that Jesus is the scapegoat for
all injustice whether it is self inflicted or an unwelcome barrage from
exterior sources.
Our job, of course is to recognize the
problem, and then, turn over the dilemma to our willing scapegoat…. Jesus…
then, thereafter live in the solution.
In
so doing, trust lives on unhindered, and we are the undeserving but victorious
recipients. And so, again…I will leave you, with just another sand castle
thought by Geani <3
