American Whimsie Dolls, Zero the Hero and Hedda Get Bedda (circa 1961), proudly displayed in my office

Warning: the pictures you are about to see may be disturbing (or delightful, if you are an oddly whimsical person like me!)

If this initial picture has not yet scared you off, read on and enter the sanctuary of whimsy.

In 1961, the Christmas of my first-grade year, I wanted only one thing for Christmas: Hedda Get Bedda. The American Doll Company produced 17 different styles of the Whimsies from 1960-61. These dolls were marketed to older kids and teenagers (some reports claim they were created for adults). Actually, the American Doll Company produced some winners–cute dolls, that is: Betsy McCall and Tressy. The Whimsies, however, were not company winners for your average doll consumer.

Let’s just say that I was not–nor am not–your average doll consumer. And Hedda Get Bedda is not your average doll (see below!)

The knob on top of her head turns to give you three different faces! Measles face (with a small hole in the mouth to insert the complimentary thermometer), sleeping face (the least offensive, according to my granddaughter), and the smiling face. For an added fee, you could buy the pajama-clad Hedda her own hospital bed. For reasons I cannot begin to explain, Hedda’s hands are claw-like. And her feet? They are much too long for her oddly-shaped body, a body that all 17 Whimsies share. To say that Hedda resembles ET is probably too kind.

My mom gave in–in spite of her reservations and a mother’s desire for Santa to bring an authentically cuter, more loveable doll–and Hedda came to live at 611 West 27th.

I kept Hedda into my adult years but lost her, tragically, in a move. One day, I recounted my Hedda tale to a group of high school students. With limited artistic skills, I attempted to draw her on the white board. As I found myself really getting worked up, I exclaimed, You just can’t believe how unique she really was! (O.K., I was giving Hedda as much credit as I could by using the word unique.)

The next morning, one of my students rushed in and reported that she had found a Hedda Get Bedda on eBay. Although I acted cool, in truth, I could not wait for the school day to end, so I could see if I could score a new Hedda. What I found when I entered the Whimsie world on eBay was nothing short of miraculous. Not only did I find Hedda, but I discovered what I had never known: there were other, more unique Whimsies!  This rocked my world.

And explained why the Whimsie line never really took off. Who would buy their kid a monk doll? A gambler? A wrestler with chest hair? A female astronaut with blue hands and feet? A hillbilly? A cleaning woman?

But I could not resist a Samson the Strong Man with a leopard singlet and a strawberry blonde moustache and chest hair. I became eBay obsessed, bidding and waiting, bidding and waiting, hoping beyond hope to score the rare, but weird Whimsies. At first, my family chided me; later, they flat-out ridiculed me privately and then publicly. Still, I bid on, determined to add to my Whimsie collection. Each day, I gave my students the latest eBay update. In time, when I had collected a slug of Whimsies, they found homes on a shelf in my classroom. (Hey, some rooms have class pets–we had class Whimsies).

When visitors came to our class, their reaction was nothing short of mouth-gaping shock and awe. Having grown accustomed to our Whimsies, my students and I could no longer see their weirdness and regarded them with the respect they clearly deserved. Visitors, however, were left speechless.

The Whimsies stayed in my high school classroom until I left, and they came home with me. During my years of high school teaching, the Whimsies inspired me to pursue more whimsy. I wrote myself letters and had school office-runners deliver them to me at the beginning of class. In these letters, I informed myself of all sorts of things, like the fact that I had been chosen to be a member of the U.S. Women’s Olympic Curling Team. I explained (to myself) that my sweeping skills had been noticed and admired, and that if–a big if–the Women’s Team were to take gold, I would go down in the history books as the oldest U.S. female Olympian.

As these letters would arrive, I would read them–seriously, ceremoniously–and react appropriately with excitement and gratitude. Students who should have known better would be pulled into the narrative, and I would look up to find their wide eyes fixed on me, their better judgement, momentarily, paralyzed.

And then the real whimsy would begin. Students researched curling and began suggesting training routines. When I bought a USA hockey jersey at Goodwill and announced that the Olympic Committee must be serious, indeed, for they had already sent me the curling jersey and were calling me up, the students cheered. And occasionally on slow classroom days, I would strike a curling pose, launching my imaginary curling stone across the terrazzo floor.

In the sanctuary of whimsy, you can imagine yourself into any world, any position you wish. You can spin an outlandish narrative that will only grow with whimsical details. And if others join your whimsy? Well, there is clearly nothing better than this. Whimsy loves company.

In the name of true whimsy, however, I must come clean before I end this post. I never could afford Samson the Strong Man; he was just too pricey. So, I did what any whimsical woman would do: I made my own. I bought another, less rare Whimsie (a well-loved doll with little hair left and magic markered-up), bought some doll hair, and whipped up my own Samson. He looks better than the original because I gave him a double-dose of chest hair.

I may no longer have my own classroom, but I will always hang out in the sanctuary of whimsy. Hedda Get Bedda, Samson the Strong Man, Freddie the Friar, Wheeler the Dealer, Hilda the Hillbilly, Lena the Cleaner, Annie the Astronaut and I will be cooking up some new whimsical adventure. Join us if you dare.