Dolls. Everywhere you looked, dolls.

In the corner, she is standing at attention, sitting on a chair in her bedroom.

They are housed somewhat crowded in the display case in the formal living room. They sit on the shelf in her closet.

Girl dolls outfitted in chiffon, and others are in taffeta. Dressed in silk as a ballerina.

A boy doll in his baseball uniform, complete with a cap.

Dolls from Taiwan, China, and the Phillippines.

American-themed dolls for the Fourth of July and St. Patty’s Day.

Dolls with eyes so realistic you would swear they followed you around the 1980s wall-papered sitting room.

All sorts of dolls, except no Barbies or cornhusk dolls.

She never had a doll as a child.

Maybe a cornhusk or raggedy doll, I asked.

No, she said, never one. Nor did her sisters Lena and Basil.

Poor beyond poor.

When the son heard the story, that all changed.

Dolls for her Christmas became a norm. Dolls for any occasion when he wanted to see his Mom smile.

And as she neared the gate, he asked one day, “What will you want me to do with all your dolls when you are gone?”

Smiling, “That’s your problem, hon.”

He sat in the basement the day of the “estate and yard sale,” staring at a row of coffee pots from the 1940s through 2000.

The dolls were upstairs.

He thought it best that the people who ended up with them not see him tear up.