When I say I smoked Raggedy Ann, I didn’t go out and shoot someone with that nickname. However, I did unintentionally kill my doll.
It happened when I was about four or five years old. The only reason I remember this story like it happened yesterday is that my mom repeatedly told it to me while I was growing up.
When the incident occurred, our family lived in a two-story duplex apartment in LeDroit Park. I was a clingy preschooler; my younger sister was a toddler, and my Raggedy Ann doll was my favorite toy and best friend. So, I don’t know why I did what I did to her.
One day, while dad was at work, Mom turned on the oven to preheat it for a cake she was making. I watched her mix the ingredients, anxiously waiting for her to pour the batter into the pan so that I could have the bowl. (Yes, back in the day, kids ate the raw cake batter left in the bowl and licked the spoon, too.)
Mom needed to go upstairs to check on my baby sister, who was napping. So, she led me into the living room, sat me on the sofa, and turned on our old small screen, black and white TV, tuning it to Howdy Doody. “You sit there with Raggedy Ann and watch TV, and I’ll be right back.” She said.
Moments after she goes upstairs, I slide off the sofa and stroll into the kitchen, hugging Raggedy Ann in one arm. I may have dipped a finger in the cake batter and tasted it before walking over to the stove. Our old-fashioned gas stove did not have a window on the oven door nor a light inside. I open the oven door. The heat forces me to take a step back. I toss Raggedy Ann on the bottom rack, shut the door and go back to watching Howdy Doody.
After a few minutes, mother comes running down the stairs and into the kitchen. I jump up from the sofa and run behind her. Seeing smoke gushing from the oven, she begins screaming in a panic. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”
She turns off the stove, and after gently pushing me away from the stove and behind her, she opens the oven door. Heavy smoke wafts out of the oven. When mom sees Raggedy Ann smoking, she grabs a knife from the sink, plunges the blade into the doll’s torso, and, holding the handle of the impaled knife, lifts the smoldering doll out of the stove and drops it into the sink. Then she turns on the water, full blast.
While mother is rushing around the apartment, opening the front and back doors and windows to let the smoke out, I stand teary-eyed in front of the sink, looking at Raggedy Ann. Except for the singed red yarn hair on her head, Raggedy is nearly unrecognizable. The blue dress, white apron, and red and white striped stocking are all as black as the eyes that are no longer distinguishable on her previously pale face. Finally, after lecturing me on why never to touch the stove again, mother removed the soaked doll from the sink and discarded her outside in the trash can.
I don’t why I put Raggedy Ann in the oven. It certainly didn’t occur to me that my action would result in my best friend being burned, stabbed, and drowned. Talk about overkill.
Or maybe we should talk about a sense of déjà Vu.