I was never fond of the thing, even though it caught my eye from the moment I saw it—her. Walking through the antique store, I almost passed right by; a woman who prefers new rather than used items, I only entered the establishment on a whim to find a birthday gift for my difficult-to-please mother.
But, while searching for the elusive 1950s bake ware which my mother adores, I stumbled upon a doll unlike any I could buy at Target. With its hand-painted porcelain skin, realistic acrylic eyes, and golden-rod dress, it almost looked like a miniature child ready for a party. “Hi! My name is Linda. I am like a real girl. I want to be your friend,” the tag attached to the doll read. Unlike most of the stained and worn merchandise in the store, Linda remained sealed and pristine in her box, a relic from another era.
Linda even had her own little doll, Cathy, attired in a matching dress. I smiled at the now old-fashioned names, so different from the Kendalls and Maddies of today.