 It wasn't crafted from the finest wood, nor did it bear the name of a famous furniture maker. Daddy made the little wooden cradle from pieces of wood that were gathered from around the barn.
It was the late 1940's..Mama, and I were window shopping at the five and dime store in the little East Texas prison town we called home. Suddenly I spotted a sweet looking dolly. I was certain he was pleading, "Please take me home and love me". Oh how I wanted to take it home! I had never owned a doll, but I knew that money was tight, so it wasn't likely my dream would come true. After numerous requests, and hearing a repeated "No", I stopped "worrying" my mother, as she liked to say when I began to get on her nerves. But I never took my eyes off the doll. Then to my surprise Mama said, "Mary, let's go talk to the manager, and see if he will hold it in layaway for you".. I didn't know what layaway meant, but I knew the meaning of hold. The manager wouldn't let anyone else buy my dolly. At last my wish would come true.
Every month Mama and I walked downtown to make payments on little Johnny, as I had named him. On one visit I persuaded the clerk to let me take a peek at him. He looked so adorable in his sailor suit and cap. During the long wait to bring him home I stitched clothes for him from Mama's quilting scraps. My favorite project was sock booties. He could wear a different pair each day for an entire month. I think Mama was becoming impatient to get my dolly home, as I was using her best scraps.
It was a cool, crisp autumn day when we made our final trip downtown. I slept litte the night before in anticipation of the big event. Mama washed my hair. Then we sat outside in the sunshine and she wrapped small portions around her fingers to make Shirley Temple curls, as they were called. I put on my prettiest dress, and off we went. As we passed people on the street. they seemed especially friendly. Smiling, I asked Mama, " Do you think they are picking up a dolly too".? "That's possible" she replied, but I think because you are happy and smiling, that makes them happy too." I was anxious to get home to show Daddy my Johnny.. Daddy wasn't a man of outward emotions. I attributed his solemn ways to his career as a picket guard for the Texas Department of Corrections. He stood for long hours in a cubicle not much larger than a phone booth, high above he prison grounds always watching for an inmate trying to escape. He had to be serious, and alert at all times.
But Daddy was pleased to see how thrilled I was with my new dolly. I showed him the clothes I had stitched, and after a quick hug I was off to play. Suddenly I heard his stern voice, "Come back here Mary, I want to talk to you." Oh no, I thought. What did I do, or what did I forget to do? But much to my surprise, he said, "Don't you think you need a bed for that doll?" "No, Daddy, I replied he'll be fine." Daddy continued in a matter-of-fact voice, "Well, I think he does, so tomorrow I will start to work on a little wooden cradle." It was a most memorable day in the life of a young girl.
Daddy could build anything. He constructed cow sheds and chicken coops. He built a tool shed too, but I don't remember it being filled with tools. I think he just used it as a haven for quiet time, a place to roll and smoke his Bull Durham cigarettes. Sometimes he let me use it as a playhouse. I decorated it frilly, and had my make believe freinds over for tea. I could have stayed there forever, but I knew that wasn't to be. This was Daddy's space. Come nightfall I had to have it cleaned out. But nothing he had ever built seemed as important to him as that cradle. The hours he spent carving, and whittling showed me this wasn't going to be just a wooden box to hold my dolly. This was going to be a work of art.. I helped Daddy gather wood, and held the boards in place as he sawed. Of course, he didn't need my help, but he made me think he did. I rarely left his side. We talked as he whittled delicate designs for the spokes for the cradle. As Christmas drew near, it was almost complete.
Every year, Daddy, my brothers and I walked the woods nearby for the perfect tree to decorate for Christmas. We lived in the piney woods of East Texas where pine trees were plentiful, but only a cedar would do for us. We walked far, and searched long for the right one. At last we found a tall, full branched cedar. It was so large that Daddy questioned whether it would fit in the house, but my brothers and I answered in unison, "Mama will make it fit." We knew Daddy would be making the adjustments. It was our way of telling him no other tree would do. We knew Mama would be happy with our grand find. She met us at the back door and exclaimed, "Honey, where are we going to put that big tree?" Daddy replied, "Oh, I'm sure you'll make it fit, as he winked at my brothers, and me. As it turned out he only had to trim a foot off the bottom.
Mama's spirits were always high during the holidays, but most importantly it was the true meaning of Christmas, Christ's birth, that filled her heart with joy. We decorated the tree with homemade garlands, paper stars, snowflake cutouts, and our favorites, the candle bubble lights. We sang carols as we worked. It was a joyous time.
The little wooden cradle was now finished, and it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. It's Victorian flair made it seem fit for a Queen, and I felt like a little princess. I placed Johnny in it, then put them both under the tree where the flickering bubble lights illuminated its' beauty. I sat beside little Johnny in his lovely cradle and recited a poem Mama had taught me, "The Swing", by Robert Louis Stephenson. Now many years later I still recite it, and it is still my favorite.
My parents showed me a true labor of love that year when they made my dreams come true with my special dolly, and the lovely cradle. I'll store theses memories lovingly in my heart forever, and maybe one day, as I am browsing through antique stores, I'll find another dolly similar to the one who stole my heart so many years ago. I'll never find another little wooden cradle.
Like my Daddy, it was one of a kind.
Mary Ann Bracewell
Author/Poet
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Family Records 
