Is the face of this blue-eyed doll who sits beside a white lamp on my dresser. She was one of those spontaneous gifts to me from Mike seven years ago as we were walking through flea markets and antique stores in North Georgia.
He was always trolling for treasures: neon signs, crockery, juke boxes, anything from the 1950s to add to his mind-boggling collection. He's created and lives in a virtual Fifties museum packed with a lifetime of finds. He re-builds vintage cars, makes "sofas" out of salvaged front seats of old cars, and has built a pristine Fifties Shell station with old gas pumps he's refurbished.
I'm not a collector of anything, but from time to time on our trips into Things Of The Past, I'd see something and pick it up, and--before I knew it--he was buying it for me.
This doll's head is crookedly attached to her body; it droops and wobbles if she's not leaning against the lamp. Her fingers are cracked and her dress is so threadbare that it probably wouldn't stand up to washing. But there she is, timeless, peaceful, an emblem of eternal childhood.
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