on my elbows. This is the view of the world that I will experience for the next twelve years.
Did I say bed? It was a metal crib with bars on all sides. I was tied in this crib with an apron strap, which had four ties on each side tied to the side bars of the crib and two ties that tied around my neck and then to the front bars of the crib. I could not get out if I wanted to, only four years old, unable to run and play. The look on my face was one of determination, telling the world that I could tackle anything that was to come.
You could see in my large brown eyes the questions that were deep in my heart. How did I get here? What happened to me? Why was I unable to run and play like other children? Why isn’t my mother here? I really need her here with me. The plaster cast was so heavy; my elbows chafed from rubbing against the sheets.
I would have a visitor each month; a tall thin lady, she was my aunty Eunice, my mother’s sister. I asked her where my mother was and she said, “She is very sick.” Aunty Eunice said that she would visit my mother following her visits with me and would tell her all about me. She told me I had Mom’s big brown eyes and her sweet singing voice. She was like a messenger who would bring good news back and forth. I asked her if she would bring Mom someday when she got better. She promised she would. She would give me a big hug and when she would leave I would cry. I missed her when she left. She was so nice and smelled so good and would make me laugh, but most of all it was her hugs. I couldn’t feel them too much on top of the plaster but I knew they would feel good.
The answer to all the questions that were in my mind were somewhat answered in the poem which is the title of my book, “The Baby’s Cross,” written by my mom. The poem was written after one of the visits to me and then to my mom from Aunty Eunice, who had brought the message to her along with the picture.
The Baby’s Cross
Her big brown eyes twinkle roguishly.
(As they use to when she’d chase her cat.)
Oh dear, why did I think of that?
She asked for him today and wondered,
“Did her Saunders miss her while she was away?”
The kitten died but she never knew
The sorrows of childhood should be so few.
Yet—the cast extends from her sturdy shoulders to her knees
And, when one thinks of these, and many other things,
How joyously she laughs, how sweet she sings.
Then when her little story of her wants are done,
She whispers, earnestly, “Some day I will run and run.
So far that nobody can catch me again.
With a sigh, your heavy heart whispers back— AMEN
By Marjorie Logan Wilson to Gale 11/16/36
In memory of Eunice’s visit to my darling Gale
The Upside Down Doll
In the spring of 1937, I was visited by a beautiful lady with black hair and brown eyes. She had a pretty pink dress on and smelled so nice. I don’t remember seeing her before. She told me she was my mother; I couldn’t seem to remember her. I had already been in the hospital for less than a year and was visited by Eunice but never by this lady who called herself my mom. She said, “I have a surprise for you.” She handed me a bag and inside of it was a very soft doll. The doll looked like Aunt Jemima, a character in one of my storybooks. She had a red and white checked scarf tied on her head and a red and white checked dress with a shawl tied around her shoulders. She was the same color as my friend Marianne, and I told my mom I was going to name the doll after my friend. I hugged the doll and thanked my mom for bringing her to me. She said that I should turn the doll upside down and see what happened. I did this and on the other end was another doll; she was a Dutch girl with blonde braids and a blue print dress with pink flowers. She was wearing a white Dutch hat that looked very similar to one of the nurse’s hats, except that the nurse had a black stripe on hers. I reached up and gave my mom a big hug and kiss, and when I let go I noticed a tear roll down her cheek. This made me sad. When it was time for her to leave, she said goodbye and told me to be a good girl and do what the nurses told me to do. She also told me to make sure I said hello to God every day. I wondered who God was, yet promised to say hello to God to make my mother happy. Then she turned to leave; I started crying but not loudly as I didn’t want her to hear me. She looked back and waved. I remember feeling what I know today is loneliness. I hugged the doll she brought, not knowing that I would never see my mother again. I clutched the doll close to my cast and held her tightly in my hands. This doll was the biggest comfort to me through the next several years. When I finally left the hospital, my aunty Catherine would not let me bring my toys. She said I had to leave them as they might have germs in them. I said, “Well, I have to bring my upside down Marianne doll with me,” and she said, “No,” My heart was heavy. I did not want to leave this doll behind as she was my comfort and knew all my secrets, fears, hopes and dreams. All my pleading and begging did me no good. The doll was left behind.
Later in life my husband and I would search antique shops looking for an upside down doll. I would describe the doll to the shop owners, and although they would know what I was talking about I continued to hear the same answer over and over again: “Sorry, we don’t have one.” I would ask if they knew of any vendors that did. The answer was always the same—no. After many years of searching, my husband suggested that I should make one; he thought it would be very therapeutic for me. I agreed to try it. A friend had given me a book on making upside down dolls a few years previously and I had made one for my granddaughter. I was off to the fabric shop the next day, picked up all the material for the doll and came home and started on her. It took me about four days to create her. I had to embroider her face (or faces) on and try to remember what they both looked like. I found myself going through a lot of emotions, feeling angry that she had been left behind and lonely for my mother and, at the same time, excited to be creating my lost doll. When she was finished she was so beautiful and I felt so satisfied. I held the doll and hugged her for a very long time. Memories flashed in my mind of the day the beautiful lady came to visit me and brought me the doll. It was her last visit to me and the last time I was to see her as she died at age twenty four.
Moving to the Big Girls’ Ward
Right up until age six, things continued the same in the baby ward. I lost my fear of the people who sat out at night. They still did, but I learned just not to look or listen to them. Finally, on November 14, 1939, I reached the age of six and was told I would be moved to the big girls’ ward. This was a real exciting day for me. I made sure my upside down doll Marianne came with me. They packed all the other dolls and toys I had and wheeled me out on a stretcher to my new bed in the ward. The bed was made of white iron like the crib, but it did not have any sides on it. However, I was still tied in with the apron strap. The bed had a canvas bag tied to the footboard which had lots of pockets, and I could keep some of my special things like coloring books and crayons in it. I even found a pocket in it big enough for my upside down doll. The room looked so enormous to me; it had a very high ceiling and two rows of windows across one side of the room, one atop the other, with an expanse of wall in between. It was pretty nice as you could see the sky, the sun, and the moon and stars at night. You could also watch the birds in the trees and see airplanes as they flew by. The room was so big and spacious compared to the little baby ward. There were seventeen other beds in the ward; nine on each side with a square oak table in between each bed, where we could put some of our things. This was a very exciting move for me; there were more friends to talk and play with and because I had few or no visitors, the other children’s visitors would come and talk with me. My friend Angie was right next to me and my new friend Phyllis was