Part V-b: Four Grandchildren of Andrew Russell and Josephine Davis

Memories of Mary Lucille Davis Woodliff (Part II)

In August of 1962, St. Bernard Abbey in Alabama sent its seminarians for studies at New Subiaco Abbey near Fort Smith, Arkansas. Earlier that month when I was home visiting my parents in Tuscaloosa, my Aunt Mary Lucille and Uncle Kirk Woodliff were visiting in Alabama and came by to see our family. They had their two daughters with them. I don’t know where we all slept but my parents had a way of always making room for relatives and friends. In addition to the four Woodliffs, a good friend from Florida was visiting and we invited my cousin Kay Wienand (the daughter of my dad’s sister Margery Davis Wienand) from Montgomery to join the fun. It was a house full and we enjoyed the cousin company by planning a swimming outing and other times to be together. I remember that Mary Lucille and Kirk told us that their son Duane was getting married later in that month of August so this incursion into Alabama was going to be short and sweet. The time with the Oklahoma branch of the family was brief, but my memory is that it was long enough once again to connect and bond. Mary Lucille and Kirk were aware that I would be in Arkansas during the school year of 1962-63 so they invited me to visit them if there would be any holiday time away from school. We settled on Easter break as the time I would come to Oklahoma.

The year at Subiaco Abbey seemed to go by quickly. Before I knew it, Easter was just around the corner. Many of my classmates from St. Bernard Abbey were going back to Alabama for the Easter break. St. Bernard Abbey owned a commercial bus that came for those who wanted and could go home for the break. I was on the track team and had two meets during the break so I was required to stay at the Abbey until the meets were finished. Plus, I didn’t want to miss the rich ceremonies of Holy Week especially in the monastic setting in which they would be celebrated. After the track meets were over and Easter Monday arrived, I set out on a bus trip from Subiaco Abbey to Henryetta, Oklahoma. Early Monday morning I got on the bus at the Abbey crossroad that intersected with the Arkansas state highway which winded its way toward Fort Smith. I don’t remember the mileage to Henryetta, but it was a long trip. I didn’t arrive in Henryetta until late that Monday night. I went through what seemed like every small town that eastern Oklahoma had on its map. Okmulgee and similar names dotted my passage to the Rodeo Capital of the world—Henryetta, Oklahoma.

I actually don’t remember how many days I was with the Woodliffs, but there was enough time to take Gail and Kay (Mary Lucille’s daughters) to school several days in a row and to be present at a radio program that featured piano students who had made Superior at festival--the Woodliff girls performed in the program with one of them playing a piece entitled “Puck,” a name I had never heard of. It sounded like a swear word to me. I later discovered the name was a mythological character. I also attended Mass daily and was told by Mary Lucille that I would play the organ for Mass at St. Michael Parish Church. I could play the organ but I didn’t know if I wanted to play while I was on vacation. I realized early that I didn’t have that choice now that I was with Mary Lucille. I played for several of the Masses. That was ok even though I wasn’t sure if I liked “the control factor” I was experiencing. I knew that my aunt was proud of her nephew’s accomplishments and, perhaps, she was keen on the idea of having a “monk” in the family—special graces or something, even though I certainly didn’t feel any special grace in my own heart at that point. Somehow I was trying hard to receive the love and affection of my dear aunt even though I was being pressed to conform to her desires and wishes. It was tension at its best, especially, to see how I would be submissive but at the same time retain control over my own desires and wishes without being disrespectful.

Well, Mary Lucille and I were on a collision course that I had not designed. One morning she asked me to get my laundry together since she was going to do a load of laundry. I thought this was a good idea since I was running out of socks and underwear. The load went through the wash and was cycled through the dryer. I went to the dryer when the cycle was done to get my clothes in order to sort and fold them so I could return them to my travel bag. I was immediately informed, however, that this was not to be done until all the tee shirts and briefs were ironed. Mary Lucille said that she always ironed her husband and sons’ tee shirts. “They look nicer,” she said. She was sure that my mother did the same for us. I said that my mother would never do such a thing. With six sons and a husband, she would get nothing done if she spent time ironing tee shirts and underwear. In fact, my mother hated ironing. Indeed, it was just impractical and wasted energy as well since no one was going to see wrinkled underwear and tee shirts. She was huffed, but I quickly gathered up my clean clothes and left the laundry area to fold and put them back in my bag—unironed!

I have to admit that there was a little thrill of victory when I stood up for my principles in regard to the issue of “to iron or not to iron.” As I learned later, a verbal report had been given to my parents regarding this confrontation about tee shirts and underwear. As I expected, my parents sided with me. I was never afraid but it was a great feeling to have your parents stand up for you when you knew you could have been on the edge of causing a stir in the family.

My Easter visit to Oklahoma was a wonderful time in spite of this “meeting of the minds.” I enjoyed the wonderful, dry yet pointed humor of my Uncle Kirk. I had great respect for him with his quick wit as well as his obvious affection for his wife and children. I was impressed that he talked with his daughters (and his sons, I assume) with wisdom, intelligence, candor and humor. I liked his style and can still hear his gentle, wheezing chuckle when laughter overtook him.

At the time, I didn’t know that somewhere down the road, the affection we had for each other would help to confront her agenda, at least, in my life. There would be other visits about which I will write. There were also letter exchanges throughout the next many years. These future visits would cement our affection, release the control issues that we both had, as well as speak about the love we had for this wonderful extended family that was the legacy of Andrew and Josephine Davis, her grandparents and my great grand parents.

(Next time: our visit in the summer of 1971, the visit in 1997.)

Part V-a: Four Grandchildren of Andrew Russell and Josephine Davis

Memories of Mary Lucille Davis Woodliff

Isaac Luther Davis, Sr. was the second son of Andrew and Josephine Davis. Luther, at the age of 22, married Ellie Cronin on January 30, 1907 in Mobile, Alabama. He obtained a pharmacist’s degree some where along the way. One set of his grandchildren referred to him as Daddy Doc. After all, Luther’s father was a medical doctor so there could have been some influence there to pursue a career as a “druggist” as it would have been called in those days. He had three children by Ellie. They were Mary Lucille Davis, Margery Eunice Davis, and John Cronin Russell Davis. Ellie died on June 26, 1916 at the age of 30 or 31 leaving Luther a widower. In November of 1918 Luther Davis married Irene Cronin, the sister of his first wife. In August of 1919, a son named Isaac Luther Davis, Jr. was born.

Mary Lucille Davis was born on Jan. 2, 1908. She was quick to point out to me during an interview with her in April of 1997 that her parents had married on January 30, 1907, and she was born almost a full year after their marriage. My memories of Mary Lucille Davis Woodliff are many in comparison to others in her family except, of course, for those of my father (J. Cronin Davis). Memories are interesting in that they are made because the brain has a way of webbing and networking memories into what one might call a forest of memory trees. The more an individual memory of a person or event is cross referenced and reinforced, that particular memory becomes what I call a larger tree in the forest. Thus, it stands out more than the other trees.

The actual times I remember being present with my Aunt Mary Lucille were few and far between, but they were always SIGNIFICANT events. Mary Lucille was an engaging personality (an understatement!). You were engaged whether you wanted to be or not. She was vivacious, energetic, talented, personable, loving, controlling, devoted, proud of her family (immediate and extended), faithful, stubborn, short in stature, sociable, tender, manipulative, head-strong (is that the same as stubborn?), and the adjectives go on and on.

My first remembrance of Mary Lucille was Christmas 1949. I was five years old. Our family lived on Hollywood Street in Moundville, Alabama. We had moved there nine months before from Pascagoula, Mississippi. I distinctly remember that a package came to our home which was a less than modest house with two bedrooms, a living room, kitchen with a coal burning stove, a bathroom which had recently been added before we moved in, plus two coal burning fireplaces—one in the living room and an adjacent one in the front bedroom. The other bedroom and bathroom were heated by gas space heaters. The package arrived Christmas Eve afternoon. I remember that my parents said it was from my dad’s sister, Mary Lucille and her family who lived in Oklahoma. That is the first time I ever heard the word Oklahoma. As I was told, this was not the first time our family had received a Christmas package from the Woodliffs of Oklahoma, but this is the first one I remember. It was not a large package, but it was full of little gifts for each one in the family. The only gifts I can remember were some clothes for some of the kids in the family (5 at that time) plus a “steam pudding cake.” The cake was not very big so there was only a small piece for each of us. The aroma from the foiled cake packed in a cake tin filled the gift box with sweet spices. The smell of cinnamon and other spices was evident to the taste as well. As a young child I now had knowledge of another family that belonged to us. Mary Lucille would send pictures of her family from time to time, but during the Christmas holiday sometime during the early 1950’s, the Woodliffs made a world-wind trip to Alabama to visit relatives. We were on the itinerary. We now lived in Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

My second memory of Mary Lucille was now expanded since it included kids that I had never met to my knowledge. There was Lance and Duane (they seemed to come in couplets) plus Gail and Kay. Oh yes, there was the husband of Mary Lucille—Uncle Kirk Woodliff. I had a fascination with these new cousins since I only knew the many cousins on my mother’s side of the family and most of them lived in our area. Now, I was learning more of this foreign branch of relatives that lived an intriguing life (as told by Mary Lucille) somewhere a great distance from me. The boys and girls could dance and play the piano. They were also in sports. They were even “forced” to dance and play for us during that short visit of Christmas 1954. Uncle Kirk seemed to intervene (I didn’t know that word at the time but I knew what intervening meant) in that he “kept” Mary Lucille from exploiting the talents of her progeny. Years later I would remember this exploitation and know how to deal with it directly. I, too, with little coaxing was asked to play the piano. I remember Mary Lucille commenting that “the boy has a nice touch at the piano.”

My third memory was the summer of 1957. My dad decided that it was time for us to visit his sister Mary Lucille and her family. Wow! We would be driving all the way to Oklahoma. It was going to be a 500 mile trip and we would leave early, early morning and would even witness the sun rise.

A week before our departure, I was washing the dishes (there were always dishes to wash). This seemed to be my lot in life and I took it seriously even to the point of not allowing either of my younger brothers to come in the kitchen and “dirty up a glass.” They would have to wait one hour before fetching a glass of water for themselves. This could have been an early surfacing of the ugly head of a controlling personality that has caused grief for me and many others even down to this present day. It had its origins in the dish washing slave camp of the Davis household in Tuscaloosa, Alabama where our family had resided since 1951. As I washed a drinking glass that had a crack in the side of the glass, my hand slipped inside the glass. The glass broke under the pressure of my hand and a jagged piece of the glass cut a long gash below the largest knuckle of my right index finger. I still feel squeamish after all of these years as I vividly remember the blood gushing into the dish water and my cry for help. My mother came in and immediately wrapped an over sized hand towel around the hand in order to stop the bleeding. I was at the fainting stage by this time. I lay on the couch awaiting someone to take me to Dr. Cone’s office which was at that time on Greensboro Avenue. My dad was the one who took me. I’m sure it was hard for him because I remember him leaving the room while Dr. Cone stitched the gash on my finger. I didn’t feel too good either, but somehow we all made it through. As we left the doctor’s office, he said, “Oh, by the way, NO SWIMMING for two weeks. Keep the bandage dry. My dad told him that we would be leaving on vacation in a few days and wanted to know what he should do about getting the stitches out since we would be away. Dr. Cone told us to get a doctor in Oklahoma to do it. Well, we made the trip out to Oklahoma, and the journey there is another story in itself which will have to be left for some other blog in the distant future.

I was almost 13 years old when we pulled in the Woodliff’s drive on North Fifth Street in Henryetta, Oklahoma. Henryetta boasts of a number of world rodeo champions. It is located in the hill country of eastern Oklahoma about 100 south of Tulsa and 100 miles east of Oklahoma City. Mary Lu and Kirk’s home was situated on the side of steep hill with a driveway that seemed to be cut out of solid rock. Our family took the basement compound which included Lance and Duane’s bedroom where my parents slept plus the laundry/shower/bath area where the three of us kids slept on cots. Gail and Kay had their own bedroom upstairs as did Mary Lu and Kirk. Lance and Duane were banished to the screened front porch where they slept on air mattresses. It had to be hot since it was mid summer, but they seemed to survive without any visible complaints. That porch was later annexed and was enclosed and used as a study as I found out on a subsequent visit.

It was a fun time being with our cousins in OK. Mary Lucille took us to a dance lesson and taught us how to tap dance. We attended a movie in “downtown” Henryetta—“Tammy” was playing starring Debbie Reynolds. We were warned that the “picture show” (movie theater) was a place for the locals to gather and that we shouldn’t be surprised that midway through the movie the patrons would begin to talk and visit one another. The roar of the talking blocked out the sound coming from the movie screen and one had to read the lips of the actors in order to continue with the plot. No ushers came forth to quiet the crowd. This was Henryetta at its best.

I still had my right hand bandaged from the cut over the index finger. To my sorrow one afternoon everyone was going swimming “at the lake.” I thought I would have to spend the time on the shore trying to occupy myself while everyone else was having a great time in the water. Mary Lucille comes to the rescue by announcing that if the doctor said to keep the bandage dry then we will keep the bandage dry, but I could still go swimming by wearing a plastic bag which was secured over my right hand by way of rubber bands. It was difficult swimming with one arm in the water and the other held high above the water. But I did it and enjoyed the fun after all.

As promised, later that week I was taken to “The Clinic” to have the stitches taken out “The Clinic” was located down the hill from the Woodliffs. I almost passed out again watching the doctor snip the stitches, but the deed was done quickly. I returned to the Woodliffs a happier camper.

We traveled back to Alabama with many happy memories of cousins who lived in the wild west…one in particular who impressed me because he drove around town and to the lake even though he only had a permit to drive since he would not turn 16 until November of that year. How he was able to get by with that I will never know.

(To be continued)

Part IV: The Davis Six

Part IV: The Davis Six

The Legacy of Dr. Andrew Russell Davis and Josephine Ryan Davis

The third son of Andrew and Josephine was Virgil Davis who was born in 1889. He was a successful merchant in Moundville, Alabama. I remember going into a store in Moundville that was owned by my Great-Uncle Virgil. There are not many memories of him except for brief visits to his home. He married Julia Mills who was born in 1891 and died in 1953. Virgil married a second time to Janie Powers. The three brothers’ children and grandchildren up to 1973 are listed in “A Cloud of Witnesses” on pages 84-86. I have memories of three grandchildren of Uncle Virgil. One was Ronnie Hall who seemed to be about my age. I remember playing with this second cousin on visits to Moundville. The other two were Andy (Andrew) and Owen Davis who were a little older than I and were, perhaps, near the ages of my two oldest brothers. They Boy Scouts and attendedthe same Boy Scout camp that I did—Camp Horne, near Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

After three sons, three daughters were born to Andrew and Josephine. The first daughter was Elva Davis who married Ira Crawford. I don’t know the birth year of Aunt Elva, but I’m sure that the Davis family Bible that is kept by my father’s cousin would list these dates. It is a resource I have not seen, but I intend to contact my dad’s cousin to see if the information is in the Bible. Aunt Elva and Uncle Ira lived south of Moundville maybe near Akron, Alabama. There house seemed to be on a main county road. I only remember visiting them once as a child. I was impressed with the sweetness in temperament that this couple displayed toward my parents and us children. After I married, my wife and I made a trip to visit family and friends in Texas and Oklahoma. This was in the summer of 1971. We traveled through New Orleans on our way to Texas. My mother wanted us to visit Aunt Elva who lived the last years of her life in New Orleans with her daughter and son-in-law . As I remember, Elva had been afflicted with crippling arthritis for most of her life. She lived on the second floor of the home and was no longer able to climb the stairway. Thus, we visited her in her room. Again, the sweetness of her disposition impressed me especially with the chronic condition that she had dealt with most of her life.

The second daughter was Venola Davis. She married William Jefferson Terry who was an educator and was at one time State Superintendent of Education for the State of Alabama. They lived in in Montgomery, Alabama. We saw them on occasion. I only knew one of their three children. His name is Edward Davis Terry. This man was my father’s first cousin and we would always address him as Edward Davis using both of his given names. Edward Davis Terry is also an educator. He established the South American Studies program at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa.

The youngest of the Davis Six was Katie Lee Davis who was born on March 10, 1898. She died on November 27, 1969. Aunt Katie was married to Evan Patton Terry a Moundville, Alabama business man. Katie’s husband was a brother to William Terry the husband of Katie’s sister Venola. I can still here my mother reminding me that Aunt Katie’s and Aunt Venola’s children were “double first cousins.” I thought that was really cool.

If one can have a favorite Great-Aunt, Katie Davis Terry was the one. She had the same sweet, sweet temperament that her sister Elva displayed. It seemed that my parents were particularly close to Aunt Katie and Uncle Evie (as he was called). When we moved to Moundville, Alabama from Pascagoula, Mississippi in 1949, my dad worked for Uncle Evie at the Ford dealership in Moundville. The business was named “Moundville Motor Company” and since my dad was an excellent mechanic, I’m sure Uncle Evie was glad to have my dad working for him.

For a while, when we first moved to Moundville we lived on Hollywood Street which was a street that ran south from the Main Street. Hollywood Street very quickly left the small residential area and ran alongside cotton fields. The street eventually curved and connected with another road south of where we lived. The connecting road was the road that led to Aunt Katie’s house. It really wasn’t that far from our little framed house on Hollywood Street. I’m sure we could have walked to her house without too much effort. I have several memories of Katie’s and Evie’s home. I stayed with Katie on several afternoons during the week. My older three brothers would have been in school. I was 5 years old and going on 6. My brother, who is 4 years younger than I, would have been two years old and the youngest would have been an infant. Thus, I’m sure it was a relief for my mother to have me out of the house some days during the week.

Aunt Katie would fix lunch for the two of us, and I would sit in the kitchen with her at the “big” table. She let me play in her basement. I had never been in a basement. The floor was cement (or "seement" as I would have said), and it had an oval, braided rug that was in the middle of the floor. Katie’s three children must have played in the basement, too. There was a toy stove and toy kitchen appliances with little tin dishes. There was also a refrigerator that was used as an o to store fresh vegetables and eggs from the hen house. On one afternoon as I played in the basement, I opened the refrigerator and saw several eggs in a wire basket. I took one out of the basket and was surprised to feel its coldness against the palm of my hand. I closed the refrigerator but kept the egg in my hand. As I rolled it around on the braided rug, I wondered if an egg could be dropped on the cement floor and not crack. I had seen my mother crack an egg in order to fry or scramble it. It seemed like she really had to whack it in order to burst the egg. Well, I tried my little experiment and too my horror, it splattered all over the cement. I knew then that I was in big trouble. I devised a “cover up” which I knew would be successful, and nobody would know that I had broken the egg. I slid the rug over the broken egg yolk and shattered pieces of shell. To my relief, the rug covered the entire disaster. I quickly left the scene of the crime and told Aunt Katie that I thought it was time for my nap. She asked me if I had turned off the light in the basement. I answered affirmatively trying not to show my guilt. Case was closed! So I thought. A couple of days later I was staying with Katie again. She asked me during lunchtime if I knew anything about a cracked egg under the rug in the basement. I told her that I didn’t know anything about a cracked egg in the basement. I didn’t even know there were eggs in the basement. She didn’t say another word. I wondered for a long time how in the world she would have ever known that the egg was under the rug. Not too many years later, I learned that lying to your mother could have big consequences. I thought back to the time of breaking the egg in Katie’s basement and was so grateful that she never said another word.

I was named after Katie’s husband. His name was Evan although I never heard anyone call him that name. Folk always called him Evie (evvee) or E.P. from his initals. Uncle Evie gave me $5 on my fifth birthday. I couldn’t wait until my sixth birthday since I was sure he would give me $6. Then, of course, by age 10 it would be $10. Being named after a rich uncle could have its advantages. On my sixth birthday I found out that the $5 was only a one-time event.

Katie and Evie had three children. The eldest is Evan McGlaun Terry, It wasn’t until recently (year 2000) that I learned that McGlaun Terry (as I had always called my dad’s first cousin) was known by the name Evan Terry in his professional life as an architect in Birmingham, Alabama. I had another connection to Evan McGlaun Terry in that when I was about 12 years old my parents gave my younger brother and me bicycles for Christmas. My dad and, perhaps, my two oldest brothers painted two used bicycles. The one for me was the one that Evan McGlaun Terry used when he was in college at University of Illinois . He pedaled around the campus in the mid-1940’s on the bicycle that I was to “inherit.” The distinguishing mark on this vintage bicycle was that it had one pedal that was made out of wood. The other wood pedal had been replaced with a rubber pedal. I always wondered if the reason why the pedals had been made from wood was that rubber was so scare during World War II. In addition, more than likely, my parents had mentioned to Katie and Evie that they were looking for a 36” bicycle. Katie, again, served our family by donating the bicycle to be recycled for another generation of children.

At Thanksgiving in 1969, I was working in Meridian, Mississippi as an organist/choir director at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. I was also courting my soon-to-be bride. I received a telephone message via my landlady’s phone that my dear Aunt Katie had died at the young age of 71. I changed my plans by cutting short a visit to Montgomery, Alabama to visit my fiancé so that I could attend the funeral in Moundville. It was held at Katie’s beloved congregation, the Moundville Methodist Church. Interment was at the cemetery up on the hill that was less than a mile south of Moundville. Her grave is in the same area as her parents—Andrew Russell Davis and Josephine Ryan Davis.

Katie’s brother Isaac Luther (my grandfather) had died in 1963. He was the second oldest. The next of the Davis Six to die was the youngest—Katie Lee Davis Terry, a woman of happy memory.

(The next entry will feature the children of Isaac Luther Davis and Ellie Cronin Davis, my paternal grandparents. To the best of my ability and memory, you will be introduced to Mary Lucille Davis Woodliff, Margery Eunice Davis Wienand, John Cronin Russell Davis, Sr. (my father), as well as Isaac Luther Davis, Jr.—the son of my grandfather and his second wife, Irene Cronin Davis.)

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TOY TREASURES: The Story of Forty Dolls and a Red Wooden Horse

TOY TREASURES

The Story of Forty Dolls and a Red Wooden Horse

(Ronald Davis, ©1983)

Once there was a little girl named Abigail. As she lay in her bed at night waiting to fall asleep, she would often wonder what all the dolls on her wallpaper did while she was asleep.

One night as the little girl slept, all forty dolls came to life. The dolls looked out of their paper eyes to make sure Abigail was fast asleep. Then, very quietly, they climbed down to the floor using as steps the old-fashioned cars, milk wagons, and fire engines that were on the wallpaper.

They scurried to the doll trunk near the little dresser which had a red wooden horse sitting on top in front of the mirror. Each doll quickly changed her old-fashioned green dress, hat, and shoes for the play clothes and shoes that were in the doll trunk. They had looked in the mirror and liked what they saw—forty little girls who were dressed like Abigail’s dolls.

The dolls made sure the steps of the stairway didn't creak as they hurried downstairs and out the back door. When outside, all forty dolls with squealed with glee as they came upon all the toys Abigail had left in her sand box the day before.

As they played the moonlit night wore on. Before long some of the dolls ventured out the back gate. What a surprise they found! They called to the others to come and play in the park they had discovered--a park that had slides, merry-go-rounds, swings, monkey bars, and teeter-totters.

But, how were these forty wee ones to play on things that were made for children? The dolls were too small to climb the steps of the slide. They could never lift themselves into the seats of the swings. They could never climb the monkey bars and would never be heavy enough to tilt a see-saw. What were they to do? In their disappointment, the dolls began to cry.

Before many tears were shed, however, one of the dolls, the one with the bright red tennis shoes, looked up and squealed, “Here comes Poky!” To the dolls’ delight, Poky, the little red horse from Abigail’s dresser, had come out to play with them

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What fun it was for each doll to be given a ride around the park on Poky’s back. While the dolls waited their turns for rides on Poky, they played chase and hide-and-seek around the many giant oak trees in the woodland park. This was such a delightful time for everyone and, especially, for Poky; for it was he who had saved the dolls from their disappointment.

With all the fun and excitement, none of the dolls or Poky noticed that the night was quickly passing into day. All of a sudden little Crystal, the doll with the bright red tennis shoes, called out in alarm, “The moon is setting, and the sun will be rising soon!” Poky and the dolls knew what that meant, and they all dashed in a panic toward Abigail’s house.

The forty dolls and Poky entered the house as quietly as they had left, and they retraced their steps back through the kitchen, through the dining and living rooms, and tip-toed up the stairway that led back to Abigail’s bedroom. Yes, she was still asleep.

As quickly as they could, the dolls changed from their play clothes into their old-fashioned dresses, little hats and shoes. Poky the red horse jumped up to his place on the little dresser with the mirror, and he stood very still. As the dolls stepped up and over the toys on the wallpaper and found their places on the wall, there was a stir in the bed below. The dolls became very still. Abigail opened her eyes.

Yawning and rubbing her eyes, Abigail looked carefully at the wallpaper as she always did in the morning. As she studied the figures on the wall, she noticed something she had never seen before. It was a red tennis shoe on one of the forty dolls! A tennis shoe just like the pair in her doll trunk! She hopped out of bed, ran to the trunk, and searched for the pair of tennis shoes. Finally, she found one—ONLY ONE!! Next to the red shoe was a little green shoe like the ones worn by the wallpaper dolls. “How could this be?” Then, she smiled as she remembered the dream she had during the night. Abigail wondered—“Could my dream have really been true?”