Karen Newman Midgarden

Meet my Danny.  When I was a very little girl in the early 1950s, my teenage aunt and uncle lived with us while she was expecting their first child.  My dear aunt played with me every day, but when her baby boy, Danny, was born, she needed to spend time with baby, not with me. 

Jealousy reared its ugly head, and I pitched a fit because I wanted a baby of my own.  We lived in rural North Dakota, but my whining was effective.  My parents found him waiting for me on the shelves of one of the local stores.  I promptly named him Danny. 

I really never played with dolls and didn’t have a sentimental attachment to any of them, except this one.  I am 71.  He has been with me since I was three, and I know that he is a

boy-- but not too macho to wear a bow on his romper!  I love him.