A Tale of Uncle Al and Two Dolls

Imagine you’re five, walking with your family around a city park. All of a sudden your Uncle Al climbs a tree. What in the world…?
When he climbs down, he’s holding a carved wooden doll. “Somebody stuck it on one of the branches. Would you like it?” he asks.

“Yes!” I squealed. I loved the doll and I loved Uncle Al, so strong and handsome, even though he had gray hair. He was ten years older than all the rest of our grownups, but we kids didn’t know that.

Uncle Al was great for playing airplane. He’d pick us up by one arm and one leg and swing us around and around. We begged “Do it again! Do it again!”
All too quickly he’d beg off. “I’m tired,” he gasp. How could anyone get tired when we were still having so much fun?

But he redeemed himself the time I found a big hole in a quilt and crawled inside. It was all quite exciting till I tried to crawl out and got lost in the maze of cotton batting. I began to scream. Immediately Uncle Al’s strong arms were there, carefully pulling me out. How I adored him after that.

As the years went by, he lost a lot of his eminence as he succumbed to age and infirmity.
But he died before I could realize "my rock" wouldn't live forever.

I still have the doll he gave me, which sits in a mug by my writing desk.

Not long ago one of our wooden spoons broke in half. Since I can never throw anything out, I made the spoon into a doll, gluing on yarn hair and tissue paper features and sewing her a green dress from fabric scraps. Remembering Uncle Al, the next time I went to the school where I tutor, I set the doll on a bench. When I came back a few hours later, my heart kvelled to see her gone.

Curious note that just now occurred to me:
That day in the park, I named my wooden doll after Al’s daughter Nona.
I left the new doll at Mayfair Elementary, where Nona went to school.