Bedtime Buddy

As a very young child, I can remember a stuffed corduroy doll that was 12 or 13 inches tall with stubby outstretched arms having a span of nearly 9 inches. Its chalky-white, hard plastic face smiled with an almost clownish smile. The doll’s chubby cheeks caused its wide open painted eyes to have the least bit of crinkle as if he was about to laugh, and why not. His body and cap were done is a Harlequin jester manner with green and brown corduroy material on alternating sides. His name was Andy. Could this be the reason I have a penchant for that name and called my son Andrew? Not really. I had no recollection of the name until my memory opened and I sat to write this piece.

Andy was my constant companion and not just my bedtime buddy. I carried him through the house throughout the day. From my continual abuse that a child like me gave a toy, the hard plastic eventually cracked and Andy lost his engaging smile. His distorted countenance didn’t lessen my love for him and he remained my faithful companion.

My mother, Sybil Beck, decided that if I wouldn’t give Andy up, she would modify him and make him more presentable. With his distorted face cracking wider, Andy looked like the grotesque and scary clowns of today. You know the ones that lure souls into the sewers. I am not sure what Mom felt, but Andy’s broken plastic face disappeared and she replaced it by creating a soft cloth one. My mom embroidered a new and different face on a piece of white muslin and used it to fill the hole left by the mangled original jester face that she removed.

It was a nice gesture, but I can’t remember exactly what the replacement visage looked like. I know it had a mouth, a nose, and eyes but the image blurs when I try to recall the new features. It saddens me that I can’t remember them. Out of love, my mom took the time to repair my beloved Andy and I have no recollection of it.

I suppose there are some who will ask, “Do I still have Andy?” or “What happened to Andy?” I don’t know. I have no recollection of its disappearance. I can only remember that some of the cotton filling eventually poked out through the seams of his overstuffed body and I suppose that I outgrew the need to carry him around. Obviously he was tossed. Looking back, I can still see him as a sweet memory of childhood and not the tattered and worn entity that he became. Perhaps that’s better for me.