In October of 1967, one of my neighbors Mary Carter received a “Pattaburp” doll for her seventh birthday.
The moment that sweet little face emerged from the gift wrap I was in love.
Pattaburp was soft and cuddly with short brownish red hair, a fluffy pink dress, rosebud lips and big blue eyes surrounded by a fringe of thick lashes. She fit into the crook of Mary’s arm just like a real baby would.
Best of all when Mary placed her over her shoulder and tapped her back a few times, she’d burp. Just like a real baby.
It was a healthy burp too.
However as with most of her toys, Mary quickly tired of Pattaburp and tossed her aside like an old shoe. But do you think she’d let me play with her?
Not a chance.
“You are so selfish Mary Carter!”
“Get your own Pattaburp. I don’t want mine to get dirty” she sniffed.
I stuck my tongue out at her and fumed all the way home.
My parents never let on that our family lived paycheck to paycheck. From a child’s perspective we had everything we needed; a nice home, plenty of food and clothes. But there was little wiggle room in Dad’s strict budget for luxuries.
When I found a listing for Pattaburp in a department store catalog, Mom gently informed me that she was rather expensive; seven dollars. Santa might not be able to afford her.
“But he has a workshop. Maybe the elves can make one for free,” I suggested hopefully.
Mom smiled and patted my head.
Eager to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse, I raced into my bedroom and wrote a letter to Santa asking him for only one gift.
Pattaburp. I didn’t want or need anything else.
After reminding him that I’d been a very good girl, and I would continue to be good for ever and ever, I sealed the envelope that Mom helped me address and popped it into the mailbox for its long journey to the North Pole.
Later that afternoon I foolishly told Mary Carter about the letter.
“I’ll bet Santa and the reindeers will fly right by your house and not even stop because you stuck your tongue out at me” she scoffed. “He knows when you’ve been bad or good.”
“You’re bad all the time, and you still get presents!” I hollered.
“Yeah, but he likes me better than you” she giggled as she shut the front door. She was watching me through the living room window as I turned to leave.
I wasn’t about to let her see me cry so I hurried home before the tears fell.
In spite of Mary’s dire predictions, Pattaburp (forevermore known as Patty) was patiently waiting for her new mommy under the tree on Christmas morning. I was overjoyed. I couldn’t bear to put her down.
The next day, Mary rode down the street ringing the bell on her fancy new pink and white bike. She saw me burping Patty on our front porch and stopped.
“Oooo, she’s really pretty. Can I hold her?”
“No. I don’t want her to get dirty. Go get your own” I coolly responded.
Mary who never seemed hurt looked ready to cry.
And I felt bad.
She was kind of a brat, but I didn’t have to be one too.
“Well ok. You can hold her for a minute.”
Besides it was never too early to start racking up good girl points for next Christmas, considering I almost always lost ground when I was around Mary Carter.
In the years that followed, Santa brought me many other dolls, adorable potential replacements for Patty.
But there was only one doll for me.
As time went by Patty began looking a little rough around the edges, as beloved toys often do. But I couldn’t help but take her with me everywhere I could. There was something about her that brought out the mother inside of me. And in a way she took care of me too.
Patty was always there when I needed her. She listened to my troubles, her cheeks were peppered with my kisses, and I cradled her in my arms as I slept. Patty was real.
Inevitably every girl says farewell to the days of dolls and turns her attention to makeup, first loves, fashion magazines, pool parties and after school jobs. She becomes a woman.
I was no different.
Yet in spite of the forward movement of my life, I couldn’t help but hold on to a bit of the old days.
Each morning when I made my bed, I’d regress for a moment, hug my precious Patty, and breathe in the fading scent of my childhood.
Then she’d be placed against my fluffy pillows which was her very own place of honor.
Many years later Grandma and I were talking about all of our many Christmases together and she asked me if I still had Pattaburp.
“Of course Grandma! She’s a part of me.”
“Did your mother ever tell you where she came from?” she asked.
“I always assumed you had a hand in it” I giggled.
“You’re right. I did have a hand in it but I was only a helper. She was a gift from Santa!”
Mom told her how I badly wanted Pattaburp and wasn’t sure if she and Dad would have the money to buy her. There never seemed to be enough left over on payday for any luxuries.
Hearing that, Grandma became frustrated because she didn’t have the money to buy her either. She had bills to pay and had exactly $6.00 spending money left in her wallet after she was done. Not enough.
“It was simply unacceptable that my little granddaughter would be disappointed on Christmas morning. So, I looked again, hoping I’d missed a dollar or two. And guess what I found?”
Inside her wallet was an additional crisp ten-dollar bill; enough money to purchase Pattaburp and pay for the postage to mail her to Mom and Dad.
"Somehow the money was provided” she told me as my eyes filled with tears. “Perhaps an elf slipped it into my bag when my back was turned. I knew right down to the penny how much money I had before decided to look again. Your Patty was a Christmas miracle.”
To think, once upon a time teamwork between a mom, grandma and a big bearded man in a red suit was able to provide a small girl with the one thing she wanted most in the world. I didn’t need anything else to make the day special.
All I needed was Patty.
I’ve discovered that cherished gifts given during leaner times are rarely forgotten; like my Patty, the doll I’ve loved and cherished for nearly 60 years.
And in case you were wondering, Patty still burps like a champ.
Michelle Close Mills ©
