From Mensagenda - July 2006

by Karen Cyson

I don’t forget much. This trait is useful in this time of high fuel prices: fewer trips to the grocery store, for example. And it enables me to nurse decades-old grudges, always an important skill.

I even remember the first book I checked out of the library at my elementary school. The librarian seemed to think this was some big deal. I couldn’t imagine what the fuss was all about. I’d been getting books at the public library for years before this over-hyped first-grade event.

Plus, as far as I was concerned, this wasn’t even a real library. A real library looked like a library, like the Roseville Carnegie library. It should smell like a library: polished wood, ink, and dust. This poor imitation was merely my old kindergarten classroom, converted over summer vacation into a weak facsimile.

But to humor the librarian, and to get my teacher, Mrs. Diehl, off my case (think Calvin’s teacher, only crabbier) I grabbed a book from the shelf and signed the little checkout card.

The book I chose was Suzu and the Bride Doll. It must have been serendipity, as this book was, in my 6-year-old opinion, really good. It’s the story of a little Japanese girl whose grandmother owns a very valuable bride doll. And of course Suzu isn’t supposed to touch the doll. And naturally one day when no adults are around, she does. Certainly it would follow that magical things then happen and the bride finds her groom and lives happily ever after and, just before grandma returns, Suzu gets the doll back in its case and no one ever finds out what she did. The end.

Hmm. Precocious little girl specifically told not to do something waits for first opportunity to do that specific thing when the odds are she won’t get caught. She gets away with it and the adults are none the wiser. I mean, really. What’s not to love about this book?

At the age of 6 I had my first role model. (The Nancy Drew books didn’t show up for two more years; Honey West and Emma Peel were 3 more years after that.)

And so I continued to check out the book. Each library visit I’d return the book, then pick it up again off the re-shelving cart.

Apparently the Lexington Elementary School librarian thought this was strange. I wasn’t violating any rule, so she had to make up a new one: Children may not check out the same book they are returning.

Well. OK then. I’d return Suzu, check out another book, read it during library time, return it, and get Suzu to take home. You’d think that would have pleased her, but no. There’s just no making some adults happy.

As an grown-up myself, I’d tried several times to locate a copy of the book. I’d browse funky used-book stores, check out the discard/sale bins at libraries, rummage through garage sale piles, but I never found a copy until the advent of the collector’s little helper: eBay.

Never one to settle for one when more will do nicely (see also: Foley forks), I acquired a hardcover (with dust jacket) and two ex-lib copies for under $25 total. Money well spent, yes?

I thought that was enough. I thought I had what I needed to assuage this particular neuroses.

I was wrong. (Hey — it can happen to anyone, even me; not often, but at least once in a lifetime.)

There I was, minding my own business, wandering though the Northrup King Building in northeast Minneapolis, when I was thunderstruck. No, not by a giant bin of seed corn. The building, once a thriving farm seed warehouse, is now home to a vibrant community of artists. Artist lofts, as they are called, housing all manner of creative endeavors from flame-shooting arc welders to intricate jewelry creations, now fill the space.

I had ventured into a showroom filled with kimonos. I have only three, so there was a possibility I was kimono-deficient and might need another.

I didn’t find a robe to buy, but there amidst the hanging silks were dolls, dozens of Japanese dolls, all in glass cases. There were even bride dolls, but in the traditional red garb rather than the white in "my" book.

Using my best balance between pleading and demanding,I approached the vendor and said, "I need you to get me one of these in white." I tried to look pathetic and able to pay, not an easy persona affectation for someone who’s never taken Method Acting 101.

The woman, it turned out, is a flight attendant for NWA (or, in Suzu’s time, a stewardess, for "Northwest Or-i-ent (GONG!) Airlines — the fanjet airlines") and flies the MSP/Tokyo route weekly.

Negotiations, including exchange of digital photos from Tokyo and checks from St. Cloud, resulted in my becoming the thrilled owner of a Japanese bride doll just like Suzu’s grandmother owned.

She’s dressed all in white and she’s very pretty. She’s in a glass case and I’ve put one copy of the book in there with her.

I haven’t noticed her winking at me like Suzu’s winks at her after her escapades. I assume it’s only a matter of time.