- Aug 31, 2007
- 70,186
- 161,375
- Country
- United States
- Faith
- Non-Denom
- Marital Status
- Married
Hello! I was driving into work one morning. It was cold and I happened to notice a young girl, probably in High School standing at a bus stop. A glimpse of the expression on her face caught sadness, or anger; I couldn't tell. But it struck me as worthy of a story - hence, the Rag Doll.
This is a work in progress - still trying to figure out the transitions and get rid of some "awkwardness." Your input would be awesome.
The Rag-Doll
Copyright (c) 2007
A few days until Christmas, pedestrian traffic was light through his shop. He glanced out the window; snow was falling again, the flakes big and fluffy. He didn’t mind the dearth of shoppers; he rather enjoyed the shop to himself once in awhile, particularly when the peaceful scene outside enhanced the cozy warmth inside. He sat on a stool behind the rustic counter. Youth had long since departed from the man, but deep blue eyes belied a vitality masked only by a leathery complexion and age-blemished face. Silver-gray hair was rapidly overtaking the last remnants of his original brown. A brass quintet played Greensleeves over a small AM radio behind the counter. Molly, a small Scottish Westie, lay curled up on her little bed beneath him, dreaming of turkey treats, and chasing squirrels. He turned the volume up a notch and returned to his crossword.
Little bells tinkled hollowly as the front door opened and he looked across the shop to see a young girl enter. She stomped the snow off her shoes and unwound a scarf from around her neck. He recognized her; she had started visiting his little shop regularly sometime in the autumn. Her first few appearances were un-noteworthy, but when she started coming in more often, he began to recognize in her a distant, somewhat coarse manner and dress that bespoke a certain teenage rebelliousness. Unattractively clad in a ratty, faded denim jacket, she appeared almost slovenly. A bulging, oversized backpack sagged down to the small of her back, accentuating an almost ornery slouch. A persistent scowl on her face warned, “stay away!” And dutifully, he would. She might otherwise be pretty, if she wanted to, he mused. Long blond hair hung out beneath a wooly gray skullcap, which covered the tips of her ears. Winsome features accentuated a slender figure. If only she would smile...
Returning to his puzzle, he looked over his shop. Once a small bungalow home, he had converted it years ago to this little store. He had built all the glass shelving and wooden bookcases himself, on which sat some of his own woodcarvings – caricature figurines, some small clocks, and relief carvings of various mountain scenes. The shelves were busy with all manner of crafts and carvings, crystals, and ceramics. There were elves and angels, birds, deer, and bears. He stocked small paintings of mountain themes and had an assortment of unique souvenirs, post cards, and booklets for tourists who happened to wander in. This time of year, he added some additional shelving for holiday nick-knacks, ornaments, and a variety of seasonal trinkets. The plethora of little gifts for all seasons gave visitors pause to look at everything for there was always something of interest for someone.
The young girl too browsed at length though had likely seen everything herself already, but still she showed up each day during lunch when her classmates would be getting sodas, candy, or junk food at the strip mall across the street. He thought she liked the crystal figurines most, little cherubim and angels – all intricately crafted or hand-blown. She would carefully lift them off the shelf and hold them at eye level, as if to appraise their craftsmanship. With a tinge of sadness, he always noticed the absent smile that never seemed to grace her face.
The girl’s visits to his store had begun to awaken bittersweet memories of his daughter during her turbulent teens, her rebellion and the painful, confusing distance that steadily grew to separate them. He winced inwardly over the arguments and fights, and the hatred he thought he saw in her eyes and how piercingly it stung his heart. He never understood what had changed from young girl to teenager; sadly, he never had the opportunity to understand. Always, as if on cue, the accident would force his memory, the sudden and unbearable shocking news, and the impossible, wrenching anguish that followed. His thoughts turned to her grave, the image of the cold headstone emblazoned on his mind as images onto the retina from looking into a bright light, only to fade slowly until the next time.
It made him remember their earlier years when coming home she would greet him at the door with a beaming smile and energetic squeals, “Daddy’s home! Daddy! Daddy!” and he would pick up his little bundle of joy and hug her, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. He could still smell the shampoo in her hair. After dinner, she would always climb into his lap while he read, curl up, and fall sound asleep. At bedtime, she would make him promise to tuck her in; so he would, and he would grab her favorite doll and give it to her, a stuffed little girl-doll that she had named 'Anna,' with green dress, yellow hair, and a little red sash around her waist. She would lovingly clutch it in her little arms as she lay there looking up at him, eyelids fighting to stay open.
“Enough!” he told himself, breaking his own reverie. Quickly, he looked down. With a quivering hand, he daubed an unexpected tear welling from each eye. He put the crossword down and attended to the mundane task of organizing the day's receipts. He pulled a batch off the needle holder to the side of the cash register and started laying them out on the counter…
Suddenly, he heard a gasp, an intake of breath tinged with a slight whine; and then heard a tinkle of glass hitting the floor. Startled, he looked over immediately to meet the girl’s eyes. He could see fear and apprehension in them. He stood up, walked over to her, and saw one of his figurines, a little crystalline angel the size of a rosebud, broken, and lying on the hardwood floor. As she mustered a weak apology, he noticed the name “Anna” written in felt marker on the edge of one of her schoolbooks. He looked back up at her and saw a slight change in her look, a hint of defiance in her eyes, as if to say, “ok, I did it; what are you going to do about it?”
He knelt down and slowly picked up the pieces of broken wings that lay on the floor. Rising, he kept his voice calm and reassuring, "Are you ok? You didn't cut yourself?"
"No."
“Don’t worry about this; I can replace it easily enough.”
After a brief pause, he added, as if to say something else, “Although, not everything is like that - replaceable, I mean.”
She frowned, a semi-defiant tone still in her voice, yet hesitant, “What do you mean?”
"Oh just that..." and seeing the expression on her face, he hesitated. A scene flashed in his mind of years ago with his daughter; they had been arguing about a trip or something; he remembered a bus - and a boy he didn't like - long hair, tie-dyed shirt, ragged and faded bell-bottoms - an odor of stale cigarettes; ‘what had I said?’ It didn’t come to him; but he remembered her face, tight, sharp, glaring...
Looking down, he rolled the broken angel in his palm, "...nah, nothing, really," he finished.
Then holding out one of the broken wings he said as if on second thought, “Well look, this is just a piece of glass. Like I said, not a big deal, so don’t you worry about it; I have more where that came from."
He gave her a feeble grin, not quite sure what to say next.
She shifted her feet, a little uncomfortable, unsure.
A thought occurred to him – as if remembering something important, he said, “Would you mind waiting here a sec? I'll be right back…”
She started, "I..." but he had turned and disappeared quickly to the back of his shop.
Re-emerging moments later, he stood in front of her, in his hands a little gray shoebox, faded and worn with age.
“I think you might find this interesting” he said, and held it out to her.
Somewhat impatient, and not a little wary, she took the shoebox and removed the lid.
“It was my daughter’s," he said.
She paused and looked up at him.
Somewhat animated, he added, "...you know, when she was little."
She looked inside; set peacefully on a bed of white cotton balls lay an old rag doll. A smudge marred one cheek of the round, coarse cloth face. Lengths of yellow yarn were stitched in as hair and clear plastic buttons with black discs inside served as eyes. The one shoe was black; the one missing exposed a flesh-colored foot. She was clad in a green dress with white buttons down the front, and a little red sash adorned her waist. She stared up, her sewn-in smile broad and gay.
"She named her ‘Anna’ - that was the name she gave her,” he said wistfully, looking down at the little doll.
The girl's coarse manner had softened; she seemed lost in thought as she gently lifted it out of the box.
Almost in a whisper, she said, “It’s wonderful…”
“Yes,” he added.
“My dad gave me one like this when I was little…”
After holding his daughter's doll a moment, she brought it thoughtfully to her chest, and then peered out the front window.
Sensing her thoughts, he started, “Does he…?” but she turned back quickly, cutting him off. “No,” she said abruptly, “he’s…,” her voice dropped, “...he died,” and glanced back out the window.
“Oh," he said softly. "I’m terribly sorry." Thinking better of saying something, he replaced the lid on the box.
With a little upturn of one cheek, he remembered his daughter’s smile, and the attendant little giggles that always elicited a return smile from him. He knew she might not be the prettiest girl in the world, but fathers think differently of their daughter’s beauty; when she smiled, he saw a glow only God can impart and only a father can appreciate, a beauty that lit up her vivacious little personality like morning sunshine lights up a meadow of mountain wildflowers on a spring day. Her smile was a gift, a most precious gift, something that could instantly brighten his day and he cherished it accordingly. But as she grew older, the smiles he so fondly treasured seemed to fade from her, and sadly, from their relationship.
After a few awkward, silent moments looking at her, he straightened up in resolve, and said firmly, “It’s yours. I want you to have it.”
She cocked her head up, confused. "The angel?"
Lightly amused, he said, "No, my daughter's doll."
“But," and she paused, "why?” she asked quietly, brow furrowed.
“Well to be honest, I guess I don't rightly know - you remind me of her though; my daughter."
Gesturing to the shelves, as if to change the subject he mused, "You know she liked these little figurines too. And, I think her favorites were the little angel ornaments. I would always put one in her stocking at Christmas and she would thrill at finding a place to put it on the Christmas tree.”
"Oh?"
“One year she wanted to put one way up at the top of the tree, so I lifted her up and I guess she got to thinking because she asked me, ‘Daddy, don’t angels go above stars?’ All I could think of was, ‘hon, I think angels can probably go just about anywhere they please, don’t you?’ She just looked at me with big, happy eyes and said, ‘yeah!’ and asked me to put her down.”
He had stopped talking.
“Where did she put it?” she asked.
“Down low," he said, lowering his hand to his thigh, "right where she could always see it."
“Oh,” she said again.
Some moments passed. Looking at the doll, he said, "And whenever she held her, she did just as you are doing now, clutching it to her chest.”
She gave him a quick, sheepish smile.
Almost instinctively, he reacted; he knew at that moment why he wanted her to have the doll. Inwardly he grinned, pleased his next move was decided.
“You asked me why? Well, I guess that’s why,” he explained, lifting his chin at her smile.
She looked away as if found out, embarrassed, "No."
“I think down deep, maybe I was hoping my daughter’s doll would make you do that - smile."
Moved with a father’s memory of his own daughter’s smiles, he tried her name, "You know Anna, - that is your name?”
Quizzically, she said, “Yes?”
“I think you should smile more,” he said almost triumphantly. “I think it makes you look very pretty.”
Blushing deeply, she dropped her head; the defiance now all but evaporated.
“Oh no,” she said weakly.
“No, I mean it. It’s very becoming on you, gives you a sort of radiance not every girl your age possesses.”
She looked up at him.
He smiled at her affectionately, letting it sink in. He finally asked, “Merry Christmas?”
Surprised, she looked closer at the old shopkeeper. Hardened facial wrinkles had wrestled themselves into a broad, warm smile.
Tears began to trickle down her blushing cheeks. On impulse, she rushed and hugged him tightly. It startled him.
Hesitantly, he put an arm around her shoulder. He looked outside. The snow was beginning to fall a little heavier now. He dropped his head.
After a few moments, she raised hers and gave him a bright smile. “Thank you mister. Merry Christmas to you too.”
This is a work in progress - still trying to figure out the transitions and get rid of some "awkwardness." Your input would be awesome.
The Rag-Doll
Copyright (c) 2007
A few days until Christmas, pedestrian traffic was light through his shop. He glanced out the window; snow was falling again, the flakes big and fluffy. He didn’t mind the dearth of shoppers; he rather enjoyed the shop to himself once in awhile, particularly when the peaceful scene outside enhanced the cozy warmth inside. He sat on a stool behind the rustic counter. Youth had long since departed from the man, but deep blue eyes belied a vitality masked only by a leathery complexion and age-blemished face. Silver-gray hair was rapidly overtaking the last remnants of his original brown. A brass quintet played Greensleeves over a small AM radio behind the counter. Molly, a small Scottish Westie, lay curled up on her little bed beneath him, dreaming of turkey treats, and chasing squirrels. He turned the volume up a notch and returned to his crossword.
Little bells tinkled hollowly as the front door opened and he looked across the shop to see a young girl enter. She stomped the snow off her shoes and unwound a scarf from around her neck. He recognized her; she had started visiting his little shop regularly sometime in the autumn. Her first few appearances were un-noteworthy, but when she started coming in more often, he began to recognize in her a distant, somewhat coarse manner and dress that bespoke a certain teenage rebelliousness. Unattractively clad in a ratty, faded denim jacket, she appeared almost slovenly. A bulging, oversized backpack sagged down to the small of her back, accentuating an almost ornery slouch. A persistent scowl on her face warned, “stay away!” And dutifully, he would. She might otherwise be pretty, if she wanted to, he mused. Long blond hair hung out beneath a wooly gray skullcap, which covered the tips of her ears. Winsome features accentuated a slender figure. If only she would smile...
Returning to his puzzle, he looked over his shop. Once a small bungalow home, he had converted it years ago to this little store. He had built all the glass shelving and wooden bookcases himself, on which sat some of his own woodcarvings – caricature figurines, some small clocks, and relief carvings of various mountain scenes. The shelves were busy with all manner of crafts and carvings, crystals, and ceramics. There were elves and angels, birds, deer, and bears. He stocked small paintings of mountain themes and had an assortment of unique souvenirs, post cards, and booklets for tourists who happened to wander in. This time of year, he added some additional shelving for holiday nick-knacks, ornaments, and a variety of seasonal trinkets. The plethora of little gifts for all seasons gave visitors pause to look at everything for there was always something of interest for someone.
The young girl too browsed at length though had likely seen everything herself already, but still she showed up each day during lunch when her classmates would be getting sodas, candy, or junk food at the strip mall across the street. He thought she liked the crystal figurines most, little cherubim and angels – all intricately crafted or hand-blown. She would carefully lift them off the shelf and hold them at eye level, as if to appraise their craftsmanship. With a tinge of sadness, he always noticed the absent smile that never seemed to grace her face.
The girl’s visits to his store had begun to awaken bittersweet memories of his daughter during her turbulent teens, her rebellion and the painful, confusing distance that steadily grew to separate them. He winced inwardly over the arguments and fights, and the hatred he thought he saw in her eyes and how piercingly it stung his heart. He never understood what had changed from young girl to teenager; sadly, he never had the opportunity to understand. Always, as if on cue, the accident would force his memory, the sudden and unbearable shocking news, and the impossible, wrenching anguish that followed. His thoughts turned to her grave, the image of the cold headstone emblazoned on his mind as images onto the retina from looking into a bright light, only to fade slowly until the next time.
It made him remember their earlier years when coming home she would greet him at the door with a beaming smile and energetic squeals, “Daddy’s home! Daddy! Daddy!” and he would pick up his little bundle of joy and hug her, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. He could still smell the shampoo in her hair. After dinner, she would always climb into his lap while he read, curl up, and fall sound asleep. At bedtime, she would make him promise to tuck her in; so he would, and he would grab her favorite doll and give it to her, a stuffed little girl-doll that she had named 'Anna,' with green dress, yellow hair, and a little red sash around her waist. She would lovingly clutch it in her little arms as she lay there looking up at him, eyelids fighting to stay open.
“Enough!” he told himself, breaking his own reverie. Quickly, he looked down. With a quivering hand, he daubed an unexpected tear welling from each eye. He put the crossword down and attended to the mundane task of organizing the day's receipts. He pulled a batch off the needle holder to the side of the cash register and started laying them out on the counter…
Suddenly, he heard a gasp, an intake of breath tinged with a slight whine; and then heard a tinkle of glass hitting the floor. Startled, he looked over immediately to meet the girl’s eyes. He could see fear and apprehension in them. He stood up, walked over to her, and saw one of his figurines, a little crystalline angel the size of a rosebud, broken, and lying on the hardwood floor. As she mustered a weak apology, he noticed the name “Anna” written in felt marker on the edge of one of her schoolbooks. He looked back up at her and saw a slight change in her look, a hint of defiance in her eyes, as if to say, “ok, I did it; what are you going to do about it?”
He knelt down and slowly picked up the pieces of broken wings that lay on the floor. Rising, he kept his voice calm and reassuring, "Are you ok? You didn't cut yourself?"
"No."
“Don’t worry about this; I can replace it easily enough.”
After a brief pause, he added, as if to say something else, “Although, not everything is like that - replaceable, I mean.”
She frowned, a semi-defiant tone still in her voice, yet hesitant, “What do you mean?”
"Oh just that..." and seeing the expression on her face, he hesitated. A scene flashed in his mind of years ago with his daughter; they had been arguing about a trip or something; he remembered a bus - and a boy he didn't like - long hair, tie-dyed shirt, ragged and faded bell-bottoms - an odor of stale cigarettes; ‘what had I said?’ It didn’t come to him; but he remembered her face, tight, sharp, glaring...
Looking down, he rolled the broken angel in his palm, "...nah, nothing, really," he finished.
Then holding out one of the broken wings he said as if on second thought, “Well look, this is just a piece of glass. Like I said, not a big deal, so don’t you worry about it; I have more where that came from."
He gave her a feeble grin, not quite sure what to say next.
She shifted her feet, a little uncomfortable, unsure.
A thought occurred to him – as if remembering something important, he said, “Would you mind waiting here a sec? I'll be right back…”
She started, "I..." but he had turned and disappeared quickly to the back of his shop.
Re-emerging moments later, he stood in front of her, in his hands a little gray shoebox, faded and worn with age.
“I think you might find this interesting” he said, and held it out to her.
Somewhat impatient, and not a little wary, she took the shoebox and removed the lid.
“It was my daughter’s," he said.
She paused and looked up at him.
Somewhat animated, he added, "...you know, when she was little."
She looked inside; set peacefully on a bed of white cotton balls lay an old rag doll. A smudge marred one cheek of the round, coarse cloth face. Lengths of yellow yarn were stitched in as hair and clear plastic buttons with black discs inside served as eyes. The one shoe was black; the one missing exposed a flesh-colored foot. She was clad in a green dress with white buttons down the front, and a little red sash adorned her waist. She stared up, her sewn-in smile broad and gay.
"She named her ‘Anna’ - that was the name she gave her,” he said wistfully, looking down at the little doll.
The girl's coarse manner had softened; she seemed lost in thought as she gently lifted it out of the box.
Almost in a whisper, she said, “It’s wonderful…”
“Yes,” he added.
“My dad gave me one like this when I was little…”
After holding his daughter's doll a moment, she brought it thoughtfully to her chest, and then peered out the front window.
Sensing her thoughts, he started, “Does he…?” but she turned back quickly, cutting him off. “No,” she said abruptly, “he’s…,” her voice dropped, “...he died,” and glanced back out the window.
“Oh," he said softly. "I’m terribly sorry." Thinking better of saying something, he replaced the lid on the box.
With a little upturn of one cheek, he remembered his daughter’s smile, and the attendant little giggles that always elicited a return smile from him. He knew she might not be the prettiest girl in the world, but fathers think differently of their daughter’s beauty; when she smiled, he saw a glow only God can impart and only a father can appreciate, a beauty that lit up her vivacious little personality like morning sunshine lights up a meadow of mountain wildflowers on a spring day. Her smile was a gift, a most precious gift, something that could instantly brighten his day and he cherished it accordingly. But as she grew older, the smiles he so fondly treasured seemed to fade from her, and sadly, from their relationship.
After a few awkward, silent moments looking at her, he straightened up in resolve, and said firmly, “It’s yours. I want you to have it.”
She cocked her head up, confused. "The angel?"
Lightly amused, he said, "No, my daughter's doll."
“But," and she paused, "why?” she asked quietly, brow furrowed.
“Well to be honest, I guess I don't rightly know - you remind me of her though; my daughter."
Gesturing to the shelves, as if to change the subject he mused, "You know she liked these little figurines too. And, I think her favorites were the little angel ornaments. I would always put one in her stocking at Christmas and she would thrill at finding a place to put it on the Christmas tree.”
"Oh?"
“One year she wanted to put one way up at the top of the tree, so I lifted her up and I guess she got to thinking because she asked me, ‘Daddy, don’t angels go above stars?’ All I could think of was, ‘hon, I think angels can probably go just about anywhere they please, don’t you?’ She just looked at me with big, happy eyes and said, ‘yeah!’ and asked me to put her down.”
He had stopped talking.
“Where did she put it?” she asked.
“Down low," he said, lowering his hand to his thigh, "right where she could always see it."
“Oh,” she said again.
Some moments passed. Looking at the doll, he said, "And whenever she held her, she did just as you are doing now, clutching it to her chest.”
She gave him a quick, sheepish smile.
Almost instinctively, he reacted; he knew at that moment why he wanted her to have the doll. Inwardly he grinned, pleased his next move was decided.
“You asked me why? Well, I guess that’s why,” he explained, lifting his chin at her smile.
She looked away as if found out, embarrassed, "No."
“I think down deep, maybe I was hoping my daughter’s doll would make you do that - smile."
Moved with a father’s memory of his own daughter’s smiles, he tried her name, "You know Anna, - that is your name?”
Quizzically, she said, “Yes?”
“I think you should smile more,” he said almost triumphantly. “I think it makes you look very pretty.”
Blushing deeply, she dropped her head; the defiance now all but evaporated.
“Oh no,” she said weakly.
“No, I mean it. It’s very becoming on you, gives you a sort of radiance not every girl your age possesses.”
She looked up at him.
He smiled at her affectionately, letting it sink in. He finally asked, “Merry Christmas?”
Surprised, she looked closer at the old shopkeeper. Hardened facial wrinkles had wrestled themselves into a broad, warm smile.
Tears began to trickle down her blushing cheeks. On impulse, she rushed and hugged him tightly. It startled him.
Hesitantly, he put an arm around her shoulder. He looked outside. The snow was beginning to fall a little heavier now. He dropped his head.
After a few moments, she raised hers and gave him a bright smile. “Thank you mister. Merry Christmas to you too.”
