Growing up in Somerville...Baby Dolls, Sugar Daddies, and a Pack of Marlboros

Jules raised an interesting memory in her comment about my "Letter to Ricky Schroeder" blog entry. I was going to simply comment back to her, but then I realized that this memory is simply too good to relegate to a comment column in a past blog entry. Some of my faithful readers might never find it there and will therefore never be able to join me in reliving a priceless childhood memory.

I must have been 7 or 8 years old when this went down. That would have put Lauren at around 10, Jules at 11 or so, Reesie at 6 and Fwiz at a mere 4 years old.

I received a baby doll for Christmas. Her name was "Baby Sandra." Matthew rechristened her "Baby Dirt-ra." (He thought "sand" was too gentle, so he replaced that syllable of the baby's name with "dirt.") We all accepted this and moved on as if the name "Dirtra" were the most logical progression from "Sandra." No complaints were raised, no argument put forth. Such was the power Matthew had over us.

I should mention, to my "new blog friends" that Matthew was our uncle who passed away at the tender age of 37 just a few years ago. He was my mother's much younger brother; he was only 10 years older than Lauren. He was very much like an older brother to all of my cousins and me. And he took this role very seriously...particularly the aspect of the role of older brother that requires inflicting torture and abuse. And yet, we all loved him!

Anyway, like all little girls, we often found the need to deface our dolls. Barbie dolls got hideous haircuts. Baby dolls were inked with tattoos of snakes, knives, daggers, and other such symbols, and rag dolls were used as practice for our future as coroners.

Dirtra, however, was a favorite target for some reason. She was pretty cutting edge back in 1980. When you rubbed her back, she giggled and cooed. She had a little hole in her mouth for a baby bottle (the milk would disappear when the bottle was tipped upside down).

Matthew discovered, for some reason that I can't explain to this day, that if he inserted his lit Marlboro into Dirtra's mouth and squeezed her belly, she would become filled with smoke. When he removed the cigarette, he would squeeze the belly again, and a stream of smoke would flow out of her mouth. In fact, since her mouth was rounded, if he just squeezed her in the right way, she would emit a series of perfectly shaped smoke rings. In these instances, she was more reminiscent of Betty Grable than a plastic baby doll.

But the fun didn't stop with turning my poor innocent dolly into a chain smoking louse.

On Christmas day, as per usual, we all convened at my grandparents' place. We used to each bring one favorite Christmas toy. I brought baby Dirtra, which was a departure from the ordinary because I had not even received her for Christmas. I had already had her for some time, but I really liked her.

Anyway, Jules discovered an absolutely massive Sugar Daddy pop that somebody had given to my grandfather. Wise move on behalf of the gift giver, who undoubtedly knew of my grandfather's ill-fitting dentures. Perhpas whoever gave him this gift was just trying to get him to eat the sticky confection and literally glue his mouth shut.

Anyway....

Somehow Jules discovered that if she lifted the 8 pound sugar daddy high over hear head and then made it reign down on Dirtra's butt with blunt force, Dirtra would react with a little giggle and coo, as if she had been gently rubbed and coddled. Well, this was too tempting. We all had to have a go. Even Matthew got in on the action. And yes, he probably WAS pushing 20 at the time.

We were all literallly lined up, having put Dirtra on the stand that usually held my grandfather's plaid beanbag ashtray so as to have perfect aim at her.

Eventually, Uncle Paul walked into the room and was HORRIFIED by the spectacle he saw playing out before him. Within seconds, my mother, Auntie Julie and Auntie Mary were descending upon us in sheer anger and disgust. I think a few of us even suffered Sugar Daddy blows. We all got busted, but I'm pretty sure I had the worst beating of all. After all, the thing was my doll. I probably should have tried to defent it. Instead, I was right in the thick of the action.

All I know is that, somehow, Matthew managed to extract himself from the situation right at the critical moment before Uncle Paul witnessed any of the violence. He had a gift for knowing when to get out of the room right before the real trouble came.

Poor Baby Dirtra.