Stacy May

When I was just a young tot, I used to play on the two bottom steps of the staircase in the living room of our home. I would imagine that it was my car, and I would drive around with my baby doll. I pretended that I was the mother, and my baby and I would go "visiting."

Now my mother used to talk to my three sisters and me like we were grownups when we were just little people acting big!

As I walked into the den with my baby, my mother started carrying on with me saying such things as "Well hello there, mam" and "How are you today?" The next question was "Oh, what is your pretty baby's name?" My reply was "Her name is 6:30."

Of course my mother, telling me this story much later in life, said she just about fell off the couch laughing. 6:30 is the only doll I can remember although I know I did have others.

Over the years as I grew up, my life took on many changes, and my mother passed away. It was a couple of years after her passing that I started wondering what happened to 6:30. Nobody knew, and I was very disappointed that I had not kept up with her even though I was now married, and had two boys. I had no reason for a doll baby in this household of sports fans, and farm boys!

My father eventually sold our home place and the time came to have a good house cleaning deep in the closets, the attic, and the old smokehouse out back.

On this particular April morning in 1998, I had to work but my dad, and sisters went on down to start the clean up. By the time I got there around noon, my father came to be just tickled to death -- he had found 6:30 in the smokehouse! She was in pretty good shape; needed some clothes on and a good hair combing but I was just thrilled to have her in my possession again. 6:30 in the smokehouse, Mom would have loved that!