Sunday, April 24, 2011

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I was never the kind of child that needed any given object in order drift comfortably to sleep,

only the sound of my parents' voices.



The only thing I can remember ever really being attached to was my Pippi Longstocking doll.

I cried for hours when I thought Maman had finally disposed of it (she really hadn't).



Heaven only knows where it is now.



But Pippi was the hero of my childhood years.

Hers were the books I first checked out from the school library,

over and over again.

The librarian let me buy one of the older, tattered ones for 10 cents.



If I only knew what happened to it.



She was a friend, one who at times annoyed and fascinated me simultaneously.


She had a monkey, a horse, a trunkful of gold, and Villa Villekulla all to herself.

She could do anything.

Adventure was her lifestyle.

She wasn't pretty, or graceful

but she could single-handedly lift a horse,

she was never afraid of anything,

she was extremely clever,

she could spin the strangest, most intricate stories on a whim,

and she was completely independent.

She had total freedom.


She totally rocked.

And I loved her.




New project:        make myself a new Pippi doll.

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