When we were little, my sister, who was two years older, and I played many hours together with our dolls. Between the two of us, it was pretty imaginative. I remember plot lines to this day, some odder than others and most rather involved. We were children with an appreciation for detail.
She insisted the dolls live in Tucson, Arizona and being older, tended to get her way on this and all sorts of matters. (I thought Miami would be a better destination.) Neither of us had been to the West or even close. I don’t even know where she came up with that. The dolls packed their meager belongings; hand-sewn clothes, “food” made of clay, and dinner plates that were the round silver lids from Nestle’s cans, gathered their pets, piled into the Tonka truck and onto horses and off they went.
Tucson looked a lot like a dank, hard tiled, shopworn basement populated by crickets, scary centipedes and thousand-leggers (which we ran from, screaming). The dolls did not seem to notice and resumed their soap-operish lives replete with romances, feuds, and business ventures. For my part though, I can’t help but think should I ever see the real Tucson I’d be a little thrown off.