When I was a child, I delighted in the gift of a Betsy McCall doll for my second birthday. For this joy that entered my life, I credit my dear mother. Betsy came in her short original chemise, possibly with a dress. I don’t recall, as I happily used pieces of fabric to wrap her in. She accompanied me on my many adventures, sailing the billowy sea with me in the little trundle bed my fondly remembered grandmother (Mommom) pulled out from under her walnut framed bed. This weighty ship, as I imagined it, had nine carved posts on the headboard and the same, only shorter, carvings on the footboard. When I lay awake, as too often I did, with anxiety knotted in my stomach and the mantle clock ticking its melancholy reminder that I, alone, held vigil in the night, Betsy was there. She saw me through.

Steadfast Betsy was my companion in a tearful bout of homesickness during which a kind relation gave me a brilliant, possibly gaudy, now that I ponder it, Floral Handkerchief to mop my face. This gorgeous cloth distracted me into fashioning a new gown for Betsy, her most happening attire yet. She was definitely fit to attend the dolls’ ball that I believed happened every night at midnight. Because of this nightly event, I made sure to crack open the glass encased shelves where I kept my dolls, except for Betsy who bunked with me. They must be able to escape their confines to attend. I also feared they might suffocate from lack of oxygen which I was told all living things need. To me, the dolls met this criterion.

And so, the wee girl and I sailed along together, until somehow, we were no longer in the same boat. Somewhere in the journey from childhood to teenager I lost my little friend. Distracted by the exciting and sometimes wretched newness of young adulthood and tormented by the remorseless plague of algebra, which I never understood the need for, I forgot about Betsy. I’m sure she also despised higher math. But when she disappeared and where she went is an unsolved mystery.

After seeing the first Toy Story movie, I hoped she wasn’t, shudder, a Lost Toy. But clearly, she was, lost from me, anyway, possibly found by another.

Decades passed. I concluded I must have left her at the old Virginia family homeplace where my dad grew up and we often visited on one far-off Christmas, but I’m not sure. The dolls my cousin Carter showed me as possible Betsys‘ didn’t look right. So, I shelved my search, until the advent of eBay.

As eBay mushroomed, I realized this vast world might house most anything I wanted. Occasionally, I checked for her, but could not find a doll that appeared exactly like my old friend–until now. Last week I discovered a familiar face, with hair the remembered color. And yesterday, Betsy Mccall arrived by post, swathed in tissue paper and bubble wrap, in a box bound with tape, labeled fragile. I like to pronounce it fragilé with the French acute, in honor of the movie Christmas Story.

Sister Catherine gave me a floral handkerchief that had belonged to our sainted Grandma Mack, which I’ve tied around Betsy with a bit of lace. I’m now in the market for a brilliantly colored, possibly gaudy, floral handkerchief that I also lost.

Betsy asked about it. Yes, I’ve decided this is my original doll who found her way back to me.

I also had a much-loved stuffed blue lamb toy, but that’s another story. Any special dolls or toys in you remember and wish you still had, or did you hold on to them?