I'm saddened after the horrific bombing in Boston yesterday, which killed four people watching the end of a marathon run and injured 140 others. It seems we can never be safe going about our lives in public places. We spout platitudes like: If your number's up or, if the bullet's got your name on it, to make some sense of the way aggressive perpetrators kill innocent bystanders. Some form of comfort is needed to help the families of all those affected. Perhaps faith will alleviate their suffering. The survivors will cling together, sharing their remaining love and the children will clutch their teddy bears while they drift into restless sleep.
I never had a soft toy to cuddle. The only doll I can remember is Betty and how she looked remains hidden by the mists of time. I went through mug shots of the contenders from the forties and this fright of a composition doll looks the closest to Betty. No wonder I never formed an attachment to a doll. My sister, who is four years younger than me, was presented with a softer version, forever known as Rubber Doll. Three years later, my baby sister had a celluloid doll.
My father took the picture of four-year-old me with the doll for a newspaper article for the Melbourne Herald newspaper. The print is marked: 4/- ea. That means four shillings. The cut-out on the back reads:
Can you remember your earliest toy, doll or Teddy Bear?
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