The Story of Me
by Elisabeth

Hi. This is Elisabeth. I wrote this story on my birthday. It's about how I came to live in this home and is a most interesting and riveting story, with a most wonderful moral at the end.


"More winning bids on eBay," murmured the sandy-haired man as he leaned over his computer screen.

Actually, I didn't know whether he was sandy-haired or not. I was aware enough to know what was happening around me, but my box was facing diagonally to the computer and I could only see his vaguest silhouette from the corner of my eye. But his voice sounded "sandy," if you know what I mean.

"What for?" asked his wife, coming in from the next room. Her, I could see plainly. She was middle-aged, meaning not really young and not really old, and had a pleasantly plump figure. Her hair was pulled up into a bun and she was wearing a pink t-shirt and jeans. She wiped her hands on a towel, which she threw over her shoulder, as she looked over the shoulder of her husband.

"Lots of winning bids!" exclaimed Mrs. Sandy-haired-wife-with-the-bun. "Print up the list and I'll get to packing them first thing in the morning."

I heard the printer start. The lulling sound of the print cartridge going back and forth soothed me into a hopeful sleep. I hadn't been long in this room, loaded with books, cast-metal cars, and other dolls and things, but it had been long enough to learn my reason for being here. I was to be sold on eBay, to a good home with a little girl who would love me, I'd heard one doll tell another.

I fell asleep, dreaming I'd been one of the "winning bids" that night...


I awoke to feel my box jostled about. Mrs. Sandy-haired-wife-with-the-bun was placing my display box into a large cardboard carton. "That's one Gotz® doll," I heard her say, just as I lost consciousness.


I've no idea how long I was unconscious. Dolls don't generally have any remembrance once they're put into cartons. Some dolls don't even remember their time in their display boxes on store and stockroom shelves. But I'm an extraordinary doll with an extraordinarily good memory.

Next thing I knew, my box was being opened and I saw daylight.

"Turn it upside down and shake it!" I heard a little voice shout.

"We don't want to damage her," replied an adult voice.

Slowly, my box was lifted through the top of the carton and my brown eyes met the blue eyes of another middle-aged woman, meaning not really young but not really old either. She was wearing blue pajamas with flowers. She laid my display box back onto the bed and started to open it.

"Mommy," said one of the girls I'd seen crowded around the bed. "Didn't you win the blonde doll? That doll is brunette!"

"So she is!" said the mother. "I hadn't noticed. Must have been a shipping error."

"What do we do now?" asked the girl.

"I'll email the sellers," said Mom as she slid me, still attached to my cardboard backing, out of my display box. "Better not untie her yet, though. They might want me to send her back."

I took a deep breath of air. The room smelled like flowers and the bed was soft and bouncy. I didn't want to go back! I wanted to stay here. I knew the little girls and I would be friends, and I could see three other dolls standing on the dresser gazing at me with curious smiles. They would be my new sisters if I stayed.

The girls left the room to get breakfast, and Mom looked me over for damage. She brushed through my hair with her fingers and looked at the extra clothes that came with me. "I like you," she said decidedly.

I felt warm all over.

I was put back into my box and left to stand on the dresser with the other dolls. I found their names were Carmelita, who is no longer with us, and Melissa and Annie. Annie was a quiet fifteen-inch doll who didn't say much. Melissa told me she and Annie were both Battat dolls, and there was another fifteen-inch Battat doll upstairs, who had been bought off eBay in the same auction as Melissa.

"It must have been nice traveling with another doll," I remarked through the plastic sheet which separated us.

"Yes, it was," said Melissa. "Britney would have been terrified if I hadn't been with her. We tried to spend our trip sleeping, but it wasn't easy to do, being wrapped in plastic bags and newspaper instead of traveling in proper containers like you did."

"I was told I came right from the factory," I said.

"Britney and I were bought at garage sales, but neither of us remembers anything before that."

I was later to learn that all dolls, with rare exceptions, have their memories wiped from time-to-time, for a variety of reasons, including when they change hands. But that's an different story. Perhaps I'll write it sometime.

We stopped talking when Mom returned. She removed me from my box. "Good news," she said as she untied me from the cardboard backing. "The sellers said they would ship a blonde Gotz® doll and I could purchase you for just twenty dollars. We get to keep you."

My heart almost burst when she kissed my forehead and said, "I'm glad. You are such a pretty doll. But," she added, "we need to think of a name."

Mom picked "Elisabeth," but I didn't care what she named me. I was so happy, she could have called me, "Burnt Toast" and I'd have been content. I had a home!

And on top of it, I'd learned a valuable lesson. I'd learned that errors can sometimes be the best thing that ever happens to us!

Mistakes are good things!


The End