When my mother was a child, her grandmother bought her a Shirley Temple doll. Manufactured by Ideal Novelty sometime between 1970 and 1979, this model of doll was a staple of the U.S. toy market and would have been a typical gift for a young girl. The doll stands at 16 inches, and has blonde, curly hair rooted to its vinyl head. Printed details depict clear brown eyes, an open-mouthed smile, and light pink blush. The doll wears a white dress with puffed sleeves, scattered with red polka dots and sporting a matching red velvet belt. On its feet are a pair of red plastic Mary Jane shoes, which would have been worn with white socks.  

The gift came with a condition: the doll must not, under any circumstance, be removed from its protective box. One day, Grandma Minnie Strassberg told my mother, this doll will be very valuable. I don’t want you to get it dirty. 

This was a big ask of my mother. Every day, against the instructions of her grandmother, she would remove the doll from its box. My mother would brush its carefully coifed hair, tweak and prod at the buttons and ribbons adorning the doll’s dress. The doll got along great with the other toys, and made friends with Raggedy Ann and Midge, Barbie’s pregnant and decidedly less glamorous friend. After playtime was over, my mother would put the doll back in its box, back in its rightful spot on her shelf, between an impressive collection of horse figurines and a box set of Nancy Drew books. By the time Grandma Minnie and Grandpa Harold and their little white dog Sherrie came around for dinner, everything was as it should be. If Grandma Minnie ever suspected what exactly was going on when she wasn’t around, she never let on.  

Grandma Minnie died at the age of ninety-five on November 30^th, 2010, a week after my seventh birthday. I was around the age my mother had been when she was gifted the doll. My memory of my great-grandmother exists in flashes, pale and fuzzy with age. I remember her full head of curly hair, once a brilliant red, and how small she was when I hugged her. I remember the smell of the retirement home where she lived and the overgrown garden in the back. 

To know my great-grandmother is to have dinner with my family. This is where I listen to my grandfather recount anecdotes from his mother’s childhood, which was spent in her family’s Romanian restaurant in the Lower East Side alongside seven brothers and sisters. This is where, from the kitchen, I smell sweet potato and apple bake, a signature dish of Grandma Minnie’s that my mother makes on holidays. 

It was several years after her death when the doll came into my possession. My grandmother came across it while cleaning out the basement and thought of me. The doll had likely been there since my grandparent’s move from my mother’s childhood home in Ithaca, when it had been packed away and forgotten. The protective box Grandma Minnie had been insistent that the doll stay inside was long gone. It was missing a hair ribbon, as well as its socks. The doll’s hair was matted on one side, a permanent case of bedhead. In its condition, and without its protective box, the doll was likely not very valuable.  

I did what I could do to restore the doll to its original condition. I washed and conditioned its hair and used a pencil to recreate Shirley Temple’s iconic ringlets. I scrubbed the dirt from its face, and sewed a new pair of socks to replace the old ones. What I didn’t consider at the time, and what I understand now, is that the care I took in restoring the doll was an act of love. Now it sits on my bedroom shelf, huddled up next to a lumpy sock monkey and a long-legged ballerina. They, too, have become good friends.