Playing with Barbies

I had a conversation with a co-worker recently about Barbies we had as children. As the conversation turned from the dolls we had (Peaches and Cream Barbie for the win!) to the various accessories we acquired (Town House! Corvette!), we began discussing how we played with our Barbies.

She was more interested in decorating their spaces -- crafting furniture from catalog photos, using images from magazines to decorate walls, cutting down carpet samples and Contact paper for flooring.

I was more interested in telling their stories.

One of the best presents I ever got was a Barbie doll house that was made by my parents and grandparents. It was wooden and had four rooms, furniture, carpet -- everything. I got it when I was about five years old, and I loved it! Several years later I got Barbie's Town House. While the Town House was cool (it did have an elevator, after all), it did not replace my homemade doll house in my heart. Eventually, the Town House collapsed into a pile of plastic and paper. Survivors included the Barbies who must have been inside at the time and the furniture.

The homemade doll house, the Town House, and several other "houses" around my room were the settings for elaborate stories. All of my Barbies had names -- most of which came from soap operas or the TV show Five Mile Creek. Because of the names I chose for the dolls, some of their backstories came from those shows as well. I couldn't very well have my doll named Eden interested in anyone other than my doll named Cruz (fans of Santa Barbara will understand).

The names only guided me in the relationships and connections of my Barbies -- Maggie and Kate were friends; Hannah was Maggie's daughter. The stories were entirely my own. School, work, parties, swimming, working with horses -- these were all options.

Sometimes the dolls went on trips, and I would stick them in the Corvette and drive from my room through the living room, kitchen, dining area and back to my room. Sometimes the dolls went to "Europe," and I would pack up the ones I was playing with at the time along with the suitcase full of Barbie clothes (yes, a whole suitcase) and head over to my grandmother's house to play. New setting, new stories.

I know some people think of Barbies as anti-feminist, but I could not disagree more. My Barbies were outspoken, hardworking and adventurous. Through my Barbies, I could express myself in ways I was only beginning to comprehend in real life. I loved my Barbies. I still do. I wish I had all of them to this day, but I've only kept a few (and the suitcase of clothes).

Homemade Barbie doll house
destroyed by Hurricane Cat.

photo by me

As for the homemade Barbie house, I had it until 2016. It survived a move to the Houston area and to Indiana, but it did not survive one of the cats jumping onto the second floor. I won't lie; I cried when I found this. It still took about a year for me to actually haul it to the curb for trash pick-up.

The furniture, however, is still with me. And the stories live on in my imagination.

Books I Love: The Dollhouse Murders

Title
The Dollhouse Murders
Author
Betty Ren Wright
I first read this book
in fourth grade, approximately 1986

This book was one of those delicious stories that one person in the class reads and then recommends it to someone else who recommends it to someone else until it seems like everyone you know has devoured it.

The Dollhouse Murders is one of the scariest books I have ever read. It's the story of Amy, a teen girl who has to look after her mentally challenged sister Louann. While the two of them are staying with their Aunt Clare in their great-grandparents' large, old home, Louann becomes fascinated with a model of the home. The model even includes dolls that resemble the girls' great-grandparents. Amy finds the dollhouse creepy, especially because the dolls seem to be moving on their own and possibly even re-enacting the night their real-life counterparts were murdered. Will Amy summon the courage to watch the dolls and solve the mystery?

This story has everything – a dollhouse any girl would envy, cookies, stormy nights, a moody aunt. Best of all, Amy's and Louann's relationship is honest and real. Amy resents her sister and resents the attention she receives, but she loves her, too. This was probably the first book I ever read that featured a mentally challenged character. The first time I read this, I was just as resentful and angry as Amy. Later, after I got to know someone like Louann, I felt more sympathy for her when I re-read the book.

Despite the premise of dolls acting out a murder, the book has a reality to that grounds it. The chills and thrills keep you turning the pages, but it's the relationships and characters make The Dollhouse Murders memorable.

The Owls Are Not What They Seem

I've been rewatching Twin Peaks. Again. I've talked about my love for the show and its characters. Needless to say I am positively giddy thinking about the new episodes that begin Sunday. It has been a long twenty-five years since we last visited that town "both wonderful and strange."

As I rewatch the show, I find myself increasingly drawn to two characters in particular. All of the characters are intriguing and special, but these two have claimed my undying love — Deputy Andy Brennan and Agent Albert Rosenfeld.

I'll talk about Andy first. I loved him from the very first time I saw the show in April 1990. He wore his heart on his sleeve and had a strong sense of justice and moral character. He weeps at the sight of Laura Palmer wrapped in plastic. Harry Goaz is so sincere in his portrayal of Andy that you can't help but adore him. He's so sweet, and he tries so hard. How can you not love a law officer who openly mourns the victims of crimes?

He may not be the brightest bulb in the box, but his heart is in the right place.

Albert is another officer of the law, but that's about all he and Andy have in common. Albert is argumentative, stubborn and judgmental. He does not suffer fools, and he thinks everyone is a fool until they prove themselves otherwise. Miguel Ferrer is brilliant playing this pugnacious FBI agent. 

While we meet Andy in the first five minutes of the first episode, we only hear about Albert who Agent Cooper says "has a little more on the ball" than Sam.

Albert finally makes an appearance in the third episode and immediately antagonizes Sheriff Truman and the entire Twin Peaks Sheriff's Department, not to mention the hospital staff and town citizens. He even takes a punch from the sheriff!

His methods seem cruel to Twin Peaks' residents. They knew Laura, after all, and hate to see her treated so cruelly in her death (never mind her treatment in life). But, as Agent Cooper says, "Albert's path is a strange and difficult one."

Andy's and Albert's journey takes them from adversaries to allies. I cannot wait to see what's in store for these two law men in the upcoming episodes.

Thank you to Harry Goaz and Miguel Ferrer for bringing these two indelible characters to life. And thank you to David Lynch and Mark Frost for creating such indelible characters in the first place.

Who other than these four geniuses could gift us with a scene like this?

Books I Love: Anne of Green Gables

Title
Anne of Green Gables
Author
L.M. Montgomery
I first read this book
summer after my junior year of high school, 1993

I will admit that I didn't read this book until after I had seen the Kevin Sullivan television movies with Megan Follows and Jonathan Crombie. I adored those movies. My grandmother and I borrowed them from a friend, and we watched both of them in one day. Then I watched the first one again!

Needless to say, I needed to read the book.

Fortunately, the same friend who had the movies also had the entire series in paperback. I borrowed all of them, and read them one after the other in about a month.

I love the entire series, but Anne of Green Gables is my favorite. I adore that spunky little redhead and all her misadventures.

I also find myself drawn in by the descriptions the Montgomery uses. To me, they're beautiful. Maybe too effusive, but I don't mind. Prince Edward Island was such a long way from my small-town Texas home that I needed those somewhat flowery passages to fully appreciate the beauty of Anne's world.

I loved Anne so much I had to share her with my best friend. We watched the movies, and she read the books, too. We even wrote letters to each other as Anne (me) and Diana (her). My grandmother became Marilla.

The next summer I was cast in a local production of Anne of Green Gables at the Gaslight Theatre. I got to play Mrs. Rachel Lynde, and the whole experience of that show was such a delight--terrific cast, amazing crew, wonderful director, fantastic audiences.

I'm enjoying my cordial.

photo by Mom

In 2008, I was able to visit Prince Edward Island and see the "real" Green Gables. I walked through the Haunted Wood and drank raspberry cordial. I strolled down Lovers' Lane and cried from happiness.

And that raspberry cordial? It was delicious! I bought two more bottles to share with another kindred spirit and shipped them home wrapped tightly in bubble wrap. I'm pleased to say they made it all the way back to Texas intact. Sharing that drink with a kindred spirit at her apartment was one of the best moments.

Anne of Green Gables has turned strangers into friends and truly changed my life. It is my absolute favorite children's book.

The Buffalo In the Campground

This is not the buffalo in the campground. This bison was seen many years
later along a trail. I slowly backed away after taking some pictures.

photo by Sara K Joiner

In 1987, my mother, my niece and I took another long summer road trip through the western United States. We again spent most of the trip camping in state and national parks. One of the more memorable evenings I've ever spent in a national park was on this trip.

It was dusk, and Mom stood by the picnic table boiling water on our little Coleman stove to make hot chocolate. It wasn't a cold evening--being late June--but it was cooler than us Texans were used to at that time of year.

My niece and I sat in the rear of the van with the back doors open drinking our hot chocolates. We must have been deep in the conversation of ten-year-olds because we weren't too aware of our surroundings at that moment.

Until we heard an angry shuffling noise nearby.

All three of us raised our heads and looked toward the back of our campsite. I don't know what I was expecting to see, but I was shocked to my core by what I did—an enormous buffalo the size of the boulder he stood beside.

And he was mad!

I don't know if he was mad at us specifically or campers in general. I don't know if he was mad because he had gotten lost from the rest of the herd. I don't know why he was mad; I only know he was.

He pawed the ground with a sharp, furious motion. He snorted.

Mom, who stood closer to the buffalo than my niece and me, said, "Girls, don't move."

As if we could. We were frozen in fear.

Time stretched out between the three of us and the buffalo.

Then, as if cued by some sound on he could hear, he charged!

Mom grabbed her hot chocolate and scurried over to us at the van.

The buffalo ran past the picnic table, across the drive of the neighboring campsite, and off away from the noise of the campgrounds.

Mom asked if we were all right, which we were except for the serious heart palpitations.

I don't remember other campers being nearby (no one was in the neighboring site he crossed), and I don't recall hearing any yells in the distance. Maybe I was too scared to register any other noises. Surely he had to come across other campers before he moved away from the campground.

Years later I learned that buffalo have poor eyesight, so we were even more fortunate. That's probably why he swerved across to the neighboring site from the picnic table.

Every trip back to Yellowstone, Mom and I talk about that buffalo. I hope he was able to reunite with the herd.

Lost In Rocky Mountain National Park

My mother was a history teacher, so we took long road trips in the summers often hitting national parks, monuments and historic sites along with museums and state parks. She adored the Western United States (still does), and many of our trips took us through the mountains, deserts and canyons prevalent in those areas of the country.

In 1986, my mother, my niece and I went to Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado.

We arrived at our campsite, set up our tent and unloaded the van -- except for the food because of bears. After that was all done, my niece and I just wanted to stay in the tent and play with our Barbies. What can I say? We were nine.

Mom, however, wanted to go look for wildlife, so she found a nearby trail to follow.

My niece and I happily played in the tent until Mom returned and insisted we come with her.

Reluctantly, we followed her down the trail until we came upon a herd of elk grazing in the distance. Mom oohed and ahhed. We used the binoculars to get a closer look. Soon enough, my niece and I grew bored, and Mom told us we could go back to the campsite.

That's when things went south.

Walking back to our tent, we turned left when we should have turned right. In no time at all, we were thoroughly lost.

But we were in the campground of the park. Surely we could wander around and find our spot, right?

Wrong!

We trudged all through that campground, waving at cars that drove past, and completely unconcerned for ourselves. We could not find our tent.

We walked up a small hill and looked from on high. We could not spot our tent.

We even ended up walking past the ranger station, but did we ask one of the helpful rangers to point us in the right direction? Of course not! We were nine. We weren't supposed to talk to strangers!

We kept walking. It seemed as though hours passed, but it was probably more like forty-five minutes.

Eventually, among the trees and tents, our beautiful cream and blue van came slowly around a curve in the road. Hooray! We found Mom!

We ran and climbed inside while Mom wondered where we had been. She said she had been looking everywhere. We were right here in this campground the whole time.

Guess who then got told what to do when one is lost? That's right. Two nine-year-old girls who quickly learned to stay in one place to be more easily found.

But what we really learned was to always go hiking with Mom.

Resistance

Rialto Beach, Olympic National Park, Washington

photo by Sara K Joiner

Like many people, I am still angry about the presidential election. I am horrified and appalled by what is happening to the country around me, to people I love, to strangers suffering from doubt and uncertainty and fear. I have called my senators and my representative. I have emailed, and I have protested.

I am still furious, but above everything, I am worried. And I am most worried about the environment and our national park system.

I love our national parks. I have written before about my love of them, but I am now taking that love as a form of protest. Since Inauguration Day, I have been tweeting personal photos from national parks and sites that I have visited. The limited characters allowed on Twitter don't give me the opportunity to truly voice my delight in and appreciation for the National Park Service, one of our greatest government agencies. Park service employees have been facing reduced funding for years and years, and they continue to serve the public. No matter who drives up to the entrance, you are welcome to explore the natural wonders or historic sites of our country.

So this is an extension of my Twitter resistance. This will be me writing about my memories of visits to national parks and sites throughout the United States. I haven't visited every one, but I cherish every one I have visited. I hope to get to more before, as I fear, the current administration drills for oil on them or turns them into golf courses or simply bulldozes them down to build a name-branded skyscraper.

I know my voice is only one in a sea of angry voices. I know that this will hardly make a dent in all the noise. I know for absolute certain that the current administration will ignore me. This is only one way I will resist. I will continue to call and email and protest. I will continue to fight for my country, for people I love, for strangers.

But I need to do more. This is more.