` The yard sale sign screamed, “Stop!” We stopped. I spotted three bins of Barbie dolls in their original boxes from the 1980s and 1990s.
“How cute, this one’s dressed like Little Debbie. And here’s one in a petite pink suit ready to sell Avon.” I lifted each to examine.
The woman seated at the cash box said, “I used to sell Avon. I bought all the Avon Barbies.”
“And kept them very well,” I observed. None of the boxes had any dust, creases or wear. None had been opened. Threads securely held the accessories for Coca Cola Barbie.
I wanted one. I wanted all of them. I did not need any. I bought enough to give one to each of my granddaughters including the ones in high school, college and married with children. And, maybe I bought the Silhouette Barbie just for me. With her swept-up hair and the black accents on pink of the skirt of her strapless evening gown, she would command attention at any ball.
Back home, I placed the dolls in the spare bedroom and looked at them only when I cleaned. A couple granddaughters came to visit and sorted through the dolls carefully kept in their original boxes for 20 years or more.
They sighed over the boxes. “Would you like one?” I asked.
Two curly topped heads nodded. I picked up half a dozen dressed to go shopping or to the beach and let them choose one. Then I helped them release the dolls from their 20 year prison of plastic and paper.
I did not offer Barbies in formals. No way would I let Barbie’s magic night at the ball end with a pumpkin. At least not until Christmas when I reconsidered, took a deep breath and decided it was time to give them to granddaughters young enough to play with dolls.
At the Christmas reunion, I announced, “okay, take turns and choose a doll.” They did and carried boxed dolls back to their parents. The two year old tugged on her Little Miss Debbie doll. She yanked off the hat. Her mother took the box and began loosening the wires and threads of decades.
Across the room I heard, “Don’t you want to keep it in the box?”
The nine-year-old shook her head “No.” She wanted to play with the doll.
The oldest of the oldest doll aged granddaughters got to choose two dolls. “I want this one as a girlfriend for my brother’s GI Joe action figure Brad,” she said picking up a doll wearing dressy casual attire. Her brother grinned. Brad needed a date.
For her second choice, she picked up Silhouette Barbie. I crossed my fingers. At nearly 10, surely she would keep the regal doll intact.
She sat down, opened the flap covering the sheet of plastic keeping the doll dust free and began pulling on the cardboard. “Can you help?” she asked. And the last of the dolls, became real after 25 years. Around the room, little people took off the doll’s shoes, tugged at the dresses or outfits, combed synthetic hair and began losing accessories.
I watched and chanted to myself, “Dolls are designed for play, not display.”
Holding their dolls, the girls gathered at the coffee table and played. “Let’s pretend that …”
Accompanied by GI Joe Brad’s new girlfriend, Silhouette Barbie also arrived at the play party. She arrived without shoes, her hair tousled by a hurricane and her gown askew.
The Avon lady will never know that her dolls escaped the cycle of collection, and I will cherish the memory forever.