A Boomer’s Memories of a Barbie Christmas

The world has changed since we were kids. And never more so than on the holidays. But as baby boomer comedian Mel Miskimen tells it, that’s not always such a bad thing.

Ah, the Holidays. A time for family, friends, memories.I remember Christmas Eve. We went to my grandma’s house. The first thing that hit me when I walked into her kitchen was that smell — moth balls, stale cigar smoke, a lingering fart or two.

Her decorating scheme? Graceland meets the Vatican. She had a lot of plastic flowers, furniture covers, and many shrines to various saints and causes.

Grandma had one bathroom. The toilet seat was covered in fur. Not the lid, the seat. It was green (I hope it was!). Whenever I went in there to … you know … it was like pooping on a muppet.

I have to tell you a little bit about my grandma. She was very Catholic. Uber-Catholic. We used to call her The Pope. Just not to her face. And she was very, very proud of her Polish heritage. Militantly so. My cousins and I? Not so much. We were girls and, well, we would have preferred to be Swedish. Long legs. Blond. Thin. We were built low to the ground. With ample hips for breeding.

Anyway, it’s Christmas Eve. Grandma’s table is impeccably set with her fine china, crystal, candles. That’s for the grown ups. Us kids? We eat in the unheated, spare room on a crippled card table. Totally unsupervised. The things we did with food … it was like Lord of the Flies back there. If we wanted seconds, we had to go and ask. We were like children from a Dickens novel. Please sir, I want some more?! Can we have some more??

After supper, the aunts clean up the dishes and all us kids go with the uncles to kiss Busia. She was my great-grandmother and was about 435 years old. She lived in the old neighborhood in the same house that my great-grandfather built when he came over from Poland in 1881. I’m sure that she was a very sweet woman, but to me, an eight year old kid with a vivid imagination who was weaned on Walt Disney movies, she looked a hell of a lot like the witch from Snow White.

She sat at the end of a dimly lit hallway, on a throne-like chair, with her bachelor son Heinie, who looked like a Cro-Magnon werewolf (no wonder he was single). He stood there and beckoned us with his Renfield-like laugh. The closer I got, the more I smelled that Vicks-garlic-whiskey smell. Busia grabbed me with her claws and pulled me close. She whispered something in my ear. Something in Polish. Something that sounded like, “My! You’d make a tasty stew!” And then she’d press a dime into my palm.

Then it was back to Grandma’s for presents! Back then, I never made a list. We were Catholic. I wasn’t supposed to ask for anything, except forgiveness. I got whatever I got which was whatever my oldest cousin Sue got, but in a different color.Except one year. When I got a Barbie Dream House.

Like all girls under the age of 12, my cousins and I never went anywhere without our Barbies, their outfits and accessories.We set up the Dream House in the back bedroom. The one with the crippled card table.

What would be the scenario? Ken comes back from college and … takes Barbie on a sleigh ride? No. A picnic? Uh-uh.

See, my dad was a cop. My uncle was a cop. So, my cousins and I were cops’ kids and being a cop’s kid affected the way we saw the world. Like, how we played and stuff. So we played: Barbie Crime Scene.

The scenario? Okay. Ken comes home from college. He and Barbie have a fight over her relationship with Alan and then, Ken “falls” from the balcony. His body? My cousin had a Ken that was half-eaten by her dog. He was perfect for Crime-Victim Ken, Hideously-Deformed Ken, Shark Attack Ken. He is discovered by Skipper who runs and tells neighbor Midge and she calls the cops.

We spend the next hour getting everything set up: positioning Dog-Eaten Ken, and putting together police outfits using bits and pieces from Ken’s yachting ensemble.But then, I don’t know what happened. The details are sketchy. Flight Risk Barbie gets behind the wheel of the Dream Car and guns it. Head on into the rickety table leg, which causes it to collapse on top of the car, killing her instantly. I cordon off the scene with left-over ribbon. A crowd of gawkers gathers: several Midges, two Skippers, a Scooter. Alan ? Underneath the chair. An emotional wreck.

We cover Barbie up with a pink bedspread. And wait for Forensic-Evidence-Gathering Barbie to do her job dressed in a fabulous tweed suit, accessorized with white gloves, a note pad, and a camera!

Then it is time to go. Home. Dad has to change and go to work. He is on the midnight to 8 a.m. shift. is was a lot of stuff to carry out to the car: left-overs, gifts. I carry the Dream House. It is my baby.

My father tells me to put it down, that he will pack it in the trunk. He was the master packer and had a system and if I put it in there instead of him, well, the balance of the Universe will be off kilter.

We back out of Grandma’s driveway and … that sound … of crushing cardboard.

I try to be brave. John-John Kennedy brave, but … My father says he will fix it. He tries Elmer’s glue. Scotch tape. It is futile. And, what makes it even worse, is the next day. Christmas Day, when my cousins come over with their new Dream Houses that Santa brought, and set them up, next to my Barbie Tenement slum.

But, guess what? We make it work. My Dream House is perfect for our scenario with Skid-Row Ken and Crack-Ho Barbie.

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