Heather

Mama made this doll for me in the 80's.
I named her Heather. All her clothing is hand made -- the navy blue dress is knitted, and the pink apron is hand stitched. She even has a lacy slip and hand knitted undies and socks!

more dolls...

These are dolls from Mama's own doll collection -- they are designer dolls she bought and enjoyed, but she made the clothing. I have "Ophelia" -- the one in the very back/left. She traveled halfway around the world with me -- wrapped in a coocoon of cotton and bubble wrap, and made it safe and sound to her new home in the United States.

These are more dolls that Mama made, but I don't know if she created the heads herself or just painted them. I'm pretty sure she made the bodies, and I know that the clothing is by made by her.

Poesy

When I was in elementary school, it was fashion to have a "Poesy" album. I don't know an english word for that. You passed it around to your friends, school mates and family members, who would then write a little proverb, sentiment or poetry in it and decorate the opposite page with a picture. I still have mine! Here is my Mama's entry, it's dated July 6, 1969. Wow -- that is 37 years ago...She drew a sun flower for me, her favorite flower.
It always floors me when I find notes, cards or anything with her hand writing on it -- even when you're gone, your hand writing stays behind...

doll maker

Mama was an incredible doll maker.
The red headed little imp is "Pumuckel" -- based on a popular children's book character.
And in the other picture, you can see "Pan".
For both dolls, Mama molded and painted head, hands and feet herself, sewed/knitted body and clothing, and made the things that go with each character: Pan's flute, and hidden in Pumuckels' waistband, a little sling shot. Mama always paid very close attention to detail.

Mama

My Mama's name was Helga. Papa says she was about 23 or 24 in this picture, and she wore her favorite red dress.

She passed away last year. She was 68 years old.

I wish I could have a good cry and be done griefing. But that's not how it is at all. I remember little bits and pieces of her life, our life -- and I cry a little bit, and then it settles back into a dull ache in my heart until it surfaces again with the next memory that she is not there anymore.

Perhaps if I catch all those little bits and pieces of memory -- here -- I can paint a picture of who she was. And remember that where she lives now, is in my heart.

Helga 1936 - 2005