A doll’s life
July 25, 2004 | 12:00am
Juliana has been wanting a mini-dresser and/or doll playhouse and her daddy and I told her that she could have either one of them for her birthday come September. My heart melts though each time she asks (almost on a daily basis) if it is September yet, so one day after being a particularly good girl, I finally brought Juliana to Toy Kingdom to pick out a "prize." Although she had already kinda decided what she wanted prior to leaving, I somehow knew that what she would eventually select would be neither one of her first two choices. Given that kids can be fickle-minded, the many choices available before them will prove to make the task of deciding even harder. True enough, she ended up with a huge Disney Princesses teacup, the contents of which was a miniature candy-colored picnic set.
We left Toy kingdom, her chubby fingers tightly grasping her precious new treasure and made me promise her that next time, I would allow her to pick out the mini-dresser and if she was an extra good girl pa also some chairs and tables for Barbie. I glanced at the Barbie section and they had most everything a little girl could ever set her heart on. The choices were amazing and never-ending.
Being in a child’s dreamland of toys and the little conversation we had going between us transported me back in time to my own childhood in Ormoc. I was a huge fan of Barbie (still am actually) and I remember distinctly my first two Barbie dolls. One was a brunette with long, straight hair and Pentel Pen stain on her torso while the other one had curly blonde hair, parts of which were clumpy and actually much too short – as if someone had tried but failed to forcibly straighten it with a fine-toothed comb. Those two Barbie dolls were actually hand-me-downs from older cousins – one with immaculate locks and a "birthmark" and the other one with a perpetual bad hair day. But how I loved them.
I would play with them as often as I could and because we had no big malls or even specialty shops carrying Barbie thingamajigs in our province, I had to wait for trips to Cebu when my parents would treat us in a toy store to supplement what I had with accessories. Until then, I had to make do with what I had and use lots of imagination and innovation for everything else. I would habitually build a temporary Barbie house by assembling sturdy, hard-bound storybooks and blocks of Lego and use everything from paper towels and hankies as sheets, curtains and clothes.
Soon enough, I was enjoying the new-found freedom I had in terms of using whatever was available at the given moment. What I thoroughly enjoyed, too, was the fact that I never had the exact same Barbie house day after day because it all depended on how many books I used and who helped me build it. Necessity, or in my case desire, for what was not immediately available, really is the mother of invention and/or innovation.
Right across our old home in Bonifacio Street, we had an open lot where my father kept in his employ skilled workers to maintain the vehicles and tractors, especially those being used in the farm. There we had mechanics, carpenters and everything else in between. They not only fixed and welded, they also painted and repaired whatever household appliances were broken or out of order. I grew up believing that there was nothing Manoy Pering, Manoy Dorico, Manoy Camilo, Manoy Maxim (whom I remember as having a particularly kind face and was always smiling), and Manoy Susing, among others, could not and will not do. Even when we had projects in school, whether it was something as simple as a cane or as complicated as an armchair or a stage prop, ‘the shop’ as I knew it then could undoubtedly ably and easily do it.
As I grew, so too did my appreciation for the shop and all who were running it. I remember in particular Manoy Susing, a tobacco-chewing stocky man with the quiet demeanor and full head of silver-white hair, who soon became my favorite MVP (Most Valuable Person). My mom figured (and I strongly agreed!) that I needed miniature furniture to complete my improvised Barbie house and rather than wait for a trip to Cebu to get it she instead asked Manoy Susing to make some miniature wooden beds, tables and chairs – everything I really needed to make the house I built for my pretty little friends a home. For me it was even better than the next best thing. And after a very short (even by a child’s standards) time, my furniture was "delivered" to me. Although decidedly unsophisticated and very basic, they were sturdy, real-looking, and totally adorable. The exposed surfaces were carefully smoothened with sandpaper but the undersides and other more hidden areas were not as even, and the whole set was painted one shade of bottle green. It was the only available color (other than black and brown) that was lying around in the shop then. It was my first crude awakening, my first realization that there is beauty in texture and imperfection.
I was endlessly amazed at the details he put into his miniature creations; even the bed came with a carved headboard and stubby posts on either side of the foot end. I also had a cabinet that I could actually open complete with hand-fashioned wire hangers. The fact that everything was a uniform shade of green also ceased to matter because both nannies of my two younger brothers, Yaya Juling and Yaya Hilda were very deft at sewing. They made me fabric pillows as cushions for the sofa (I remember they were the size of the Chinese jackstone, remember them?) and they were fluffed up with cotton. Nope, not the drugstore variety but the ones our houseboy picked from a tree in the backyard. We called it duldul and it was a fun process that entailed the careful separation of the cotton from the seeds that were interlaced within it. They also sewed my Barbie dolls’ clothes from scraps of fabric that were remnants of dresses that my mom would have custom-made by the local dressmaker. Both yayas made enough backless tops, mini skirts, floral frocks, and bandanas to last Barbie one generation.
Because of all our skilled workers and the wonderful things they could do with their hands, I understood soon enough that I had no need for anything store-bought, at least not as far as doll accessories were concerned. I had my own treasure trove right at home. My blonde Barbie may be forever stuck with a bad hair day but hey, together with her friend the brunette they had killer clothes and rocking real wooden furniture. How’s that for a doll life? I’m sure they could not ask for more.
I often tell Juliana all this during our playtime and she never tires of hearing it again and again. She listens wide and dreamy-eyed as I describe to her the miniature furniture and hand-made dresses I enjoyed dolling up Barbie with when I was a little girl myself. She cannot seem to grasp, at this point in time, that the sleek-looking toys she sees around her could actually be made and copied by a real man like Manoy Susing.
Although I do appreciate the convenience of having everything readily and easily available at the nearest department store, I truly miss the charm of living in a small province – where fond childhood memories are sometimes carved in handmade wooden toys and woven into hand-sewn miniature doll dresses. How times have changed.
We left Toy kingdom, her chubby fingers tightly grasping her precious new treasure and made me promise her that next time, I would allow her to pick out the mini-dresser and if she was an extra good girl pa also some chairs and tables for Barbie. I glanced at the Barbie section and they had most everything a little girl could ever set her heart on. The choices were amazing and never-ending.
Being in a child’s dreamland of toys and the little conversation we had going between us transported me back in time to my own childhood in Ormoc. I was a huge fan of Barbie (still am actually) and I remember distinctly my first two Barbie dolls. One was a brunette with long, straight hair and Pentel Pen stain on her torso while the other one had curly blonde hair, parts of which were clumpy and actually much too short – as if someone had tried but failed to forcibly straighten it with a fine-toothed comb. Those two Barbie dolls were actually hand-me-downs from older cousins – one with immaculate locks and a "birthmark" and the other one with a perpetual bad hair day. But how I loved them.
I would play with them as often as I could and because we had no big malls or even specialty shops carrying Barbie thingamajigs in our province, I had to wait for trips to Cebu when my parents would treat us in a toy store to supplement what I had with accessories. Until then, I had to make do with what I had and use lots of imagination and innovation for everything else. I would habitually build a temporary Barbie house by assembling sturdy, hard-bound storybooks and blocks of Lego and use everything from paper towels and hankies as sheets, curtains and clothes.
Soon enough, I was enjoying the new-found freedom I had in terms of using whatever was available at the given moment. What I thoroughly enjoyed, too, was the fact that I never had the exact same Barbie house day after day because it all depended on how many books I used and who helped me build it. Necessity, or in my case desire, for what was not immediately available, really is the mother of invention and/or innovation.
Right across our old home in Bonifacio Street, we had an open lot where my father kept in his employ skilled workers to maintain the vehicles and tractors, especially those being used in the farm. There we had mechanics, carpenters and everything else in between. They not only fixed and welded, they also painted and repaired whatever household appliances were broken or out of order. I grew up believing that there was nothing Manoy Pering, Manoy Dorico, Manoy Camilo, Manoy Maxim (whom I remember as having a particularly kind face and was always smiling), and Manoy Susing, among others, could not and will not do. Even when we had projects in school, whether it was something as simple as a cane or as complicated as an armchair or a stage prop, ‘the shop’ as I knew it then could undoubtedly ably and easily do it.
As I grew, so too did my appreciation for the shop and all who were running it. I remember in particular Manoy Susing, a tobacco-chewing stocky man with the quiet demeanor and full head of silver-white hair, who soon became my favorite MVP (Most Valuable Person). My mom figured (and I strongly agreed!) that I needed miniature furniture to complete my improvised Barbie house and rather than wait for a trip to Cebu to get it she instead asked Manoy Susing to make some miniature wooden beds, tables and chairs – everything I really needed to make the house I built for my pretty little friends a home. For me it was even better than the next best thing. And after a very short (even by a child’s standards) time, my furniture was "delivered" to me. Although decidedly unsophisticated and very basic, they were sturdy, real-looking, and totally adorable. The exposed surfaces were carefully smoothened with sandpaper but the undersides and other more hidden areas were not as even, and the whole set was painted one shade of bottle green. It was the only available color (other than black and brown) that was lying around in the shop then. It was my first crude awakening, my first realization that there is beauty in texture and imperfection.
I was endlessly amazed at the details he put into his miniature creations; even the bed came with a carved headboard and stubby posts on either side of the foot end. I also had a cabinet that I could actually open complete with hand-fashioned wire hangers. The fact that everything was a uniform shade of green also ceased to matter because both nannies of my two younger brothers, Yaya Juling and Yaya Hilda were very deft at sewing. They made me fabric pillows as cushions for the sofa (I remember they were the size of the Chinese jackstone, remember them?) and they were fluffed up with cotton. Nope, not the drugstore variety but the ones our houseboy picked from a tree in the backyard. We called it duldul and it was a fun process that entailed the careful separation of the cotton from the seeds that were interlaced within it. They also sewed my Barbie dolls’ clothes from scraps of fabric that were remnants of dresses that my mom would have custom-made by the local dressmaker. Both yayas made enough backless tops, mini skirts, floral frocks, and bandanas to last Barbie one generation.
Because of all our skilled workers and the wonderful things they could do with their hands, I understood soon enough that I had no need for anything store-bought, at least not as far as doll accessories were concerned. I had my own treasure trove right at home. My blonde Barbie may be forever stuck with a bad hair day but hey, together with her friend the brunette they had killer clothes and rocking real wooden furniture. How’s that for a doll life? I’m sure they could not ask for more.
I often tell Juliana all this during our playtime and she never tires of hearing it again and again. She listens wide and dreamy-eyed as I describe to her the miniature furniture and hand-made dresses I enjoyed dolling up Barbie with when I was a little girl myself. She cannot seem to grasp, at this point in time, that the sleek-looking toys she sees around her could actually be made and copied by a real man like Manoy Susing.
Although I do appreciate the convenience of having everything readily and easily available at the nearest department store, I truly miss the charm of living in a small province – where fond childhood memories are sometimes carved in handmade wooden toys and woven into hand-sewn miniature doll dresses. How times have changed.
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