Between the Raecke sisters and my sisters, we had a menagerie of Barbies. I use the term “Barbies” loosely for both official and unofficial Barbies. Our collection was vast and unique: 1) Calico Lassie, an Ellie Mae Clampett look-alike, ordered from the back of a Kellogg’s box; 2) Betsy McCall, a 1951 McCall’s Magazine paper doll that became an 8-inch poseable plastic doll (ours only had one leg—we use and abused our dolls!—who was always delegated as the handicapped daughter); 3) Skipper, Barbie’s younger sister (the real deal from the Mattel Company); 4) Johnny and Jane West, 1966-67 Marx Company cowboy/cowgirl dolls, complete with their horses, Thunderbolt and Blaze; 5) a host of generic dime store Barbie clones whose hair we often chopped off because we were short on males; and 6) Midge, Barbie’s best friend released by Mattel in 1963 and the crown jewel in our menagerie.
The original Mattel Barbie doll was 11.5 inches tall, small enough to carry around yet large enough to dress easily. If she were a real woman, however, her measurements would be 36-18-33. Barbie was a top-heavy bombshell, a far cry from the baby dolls that had previously flooded the market. Needless to say, her debut in 1959 was met with criticism. Some argued that she looked much too mature to be a child’s doll. To counter this criticism, Mattel released Midge, who had a fuller, gentler face but shared the same proportions so that the best friends could share clothes.
While I was the proud owner of Calico Lassie, the $4.99 bargain from the back of the Kellogg’s Sugar Pops box, my sister owned Midge, the first official Barbie in our family. Midge was a celebrity in our motley crew of Barbie clones. Midge, with her red flipped hairdo and freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose, was legendary on West 27th Street. We never dreamt of cutting her hair. That would be sacrilege.
Years after our Barbie-playing days were over, my mom was preparing for a garage sale when she inquired about the tote of Barbies in our basement. Did we want them? Any? All? Unthinkingly, perhaps foolishly, we said no. And so, they were included with other garage sale treasures and sold for pennies. Calico Lassie, Betsy McCall, Johnnie and Jane West, Thunderbolt and Blaze, my entire collection of Breyer horses, and assorted Barbie clones—all gone. At the time, we barely registered this loss, for as college students, we couldn’t imagine that we’d one day grieve our decision to sell them.
As I was cleaning a closet last week, I discovered a small tote of my son’s Transformers, beloved toys that escaped the garage sale I’d held years ago when we moved from town to the country. What didn’t escape, however—a decision I truly regret—was his extensive collection of Pokemon cards. What was I thinking? Why didn’t I remember the Barbie lesson I’d learned? How could I so cavalierly spread years of card-collecting over a garage sale table laden with clothing items and kitchen wares? When I asked Quinn if he wanted to keep them, he showed little interest and said, “Just sell them.” But why did I listen to him? I’d said the same thing to my mom and lived to regret it.
Today, the original Midge would bring a pretty penny, especially if one had the foresight to keep her original box and clothing. Likewise, many of Quinn’s Pokemon cards would bring top dollar, for he’d stored them in plastic sleeves to protect them. But for me—and I suspect others—the monetary value of old toys and collectibles isn’t really the issue. We mourn the loss of these treasures, for they’re tangible remnants of our childhood. Just holding them transports us to those halcyon days of neighborhood Barbie fests and card trading sessions with friends. It takes us back to those days when, after saving our allowance for months, we could finally buy another pack of cards or Barbie outfit. I’m not sure any purchases I’ve made since have been quite as sweet.
And there’s something sweet about watching our grandchildren play with the very toys or collect the very things that we did. Our dolls may be worse for wear, their hair long since unflipped and limbs missing, but they’re loved anew. Our former collections may seem silly to some today, but they’re often treasured by grandchildren who love them because we loved them first.
As I mourn Midge and other childhood treasures I’ve lost, I know that I could find them on eBay if I were willing to pay. For a price (generally a hefty price!), I could replace them. But I’ll rest in my memories of them. I can close my eyes and return to my childhood bedroom with Calico Lassie, who’s meeting up with her new friend, Jane West. I can see Jane, with her bendy legs, mount her horse, Blaze, and Calico Lassie, with her frustratingly straight legs, resort to riding side-saddle on a Breyer Appaloosa. I can still see it all, and this delight me more than I say.
