| Biographical Non-Fiction posted January 7, 2022 | Chapters: |
...11 12 -13- 14... 
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The desire to get even sometimes starts young.
A chapter in the book At Home in Mississippi
The Doll
by BethShelby
It wasn’t my proudest moment. But hey, I was only three. Kids usually get a pass when they’re that young, don’t they? It wasn’t altogether my fault. If she hadn’t been such a selfish little snot… Oh, I’m sorry. It isn’t right to call people names, but things might have gone a lot smoother, if she just had, at least, tried to be nice. We might have actually had fun that day. It was her own fault that she ended the day in tears.
My life revolved around nothing but adults. I thought it wasn’t fair for other kids to have people their age to play with, and I had no one. Dad worked in town, but Mom was always around, and I had a traveling grandmother, who lived with us part of the time. The other grown-ups, Gram-ma and Gram-pa Weir, Uncle Bill, and Aunt Eva, lived a few minutes away, so everyone around me was twice as tall as me and way older. They tried to keep me entertained, but we had nothing in common but our DNA.
When anything less boring than another long summer day at home was about to happen, I was always the last to know. I didn’t know I was going to meet a girl cousin, my own age, until shortly before she arrived. Like me, she was an only child, and every bit as spoiled as I was. She looked at me like I had cooties. The doll she was holding had big blue eyes and curls. All I wanted to do was hold it, but when I politely asked permission, her short emphatic “No!” rubbed me the wrong way.
I didn’t push it, but a plan was already forming in my mind. Later in life, I was occasionally accused of being devious, but my journey down that path probably started that day.
It would have been a really special day under different circumstances. My parents and her parents had decided we would all drive an hour away to a new state park that had been recently constructed under President Roosevelt’s WPA project. Since our cousins lived in a different state, getting reacquainted at a family picnic seemed a viable solution.
The six of us climbed into their new ’40 Ford sedan and drove until we arrived at our destination. By that time, with some encouragement from our parents, Linda and I had at least started to be less suspicious of each other, but the doll was still clutched tightly in her arms.
The park was located down a winding black-top road that led to a large lake. Our eyes lit up when we saw the swings, slides and see-saws. Our family located a big pavilion with picnic tables scattered about and began laying our lunch. Linda and I headed for the nearby playground equipment. I was well aware that her precious doll now lay on one of seats surrounding the pavilion.
As we explored and played, Linda’s attitude toward me warmed considerably. I made sure she stayed happy, and the doll was long-forgotten, but only by Linda. As our parents chatted and we munched on sandwiches, I kept my eye on the doll. When Linda’s mom took her to the restroom for a potty break, I saw my chance and made use of the Sunday newspaper someone had discarded, to ease over and carefully cover the doll.
Later in the afternoon, I held my breath as our parents packed the car for our return home. All the way home I kept Linda involved in an exciting ‘I spy’ game. We giggled and chatted away like old friends, until we were just a couple of miles from home. It was time.
“Where’s your doll?” I asked with genuine concern in my voice.
“My doll,” she screeched, “my new doll! I left my doll on that bench. We have to go back. I need my doll.” By this time, tears had formed, and she was starting to make choaking sounds.
“Honey, we can’t go back. It’s too far. I knew you shouldn’t have taken that doll. It probably isn’t there anymore,” her mom told her. “You’ve got other dolls at home.”
Her tears of distress grew louder and still echoed as the family said their good-byes and drove away. Only after their car faded from sight did it occur to me, once again, I had no one to play with. Only then, did I feel a degree of shame. I’d done a bad thing, but I wouldn’t be punished, because my flawless plan had left me looking innocent.
I never saw Linda again, but I never forgot I had caused her pain. For years after, when I started to feel like maybe I was a few degrees nicer than the average kid, I’d remember the doll and realize that I was very capable of a burning desire to get even when I felt wronged. I needed to watch my impulses.
It wasn’t the last time that demon reared its ugly head. I gave in too often, and used a certain degree of cunning to get even, without getting caught. It was a flaw I fought well into my teens. Even in my early married years, it was sometimes there. I didn’t like myself very much when that particular temptation got the best of me.
It has taken a while, but I’m thankful to say that I’ve not felt that urge in years. Maybe we finally grow up as we grow older. Hopefully, the term “devious” no longer applies to me.
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I am reviving this at this point because I will add it as Chapter 13 of the book At Home in Mississippi. It fits here as a followup to the story "Tidbits, Cures and Other Kids" as I alluded to in my last post. Many of you will remember it from 2022.
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