Confession: I may be the only woman on God’s green earth who hasn’t seen the Barbie movie. This is due, in part, because my daughter wouldn’t go with me. For a moment, I felt I had failed as a parent and then I reflected on my childhood.
It’s Christmas, circa 1975. As with everything else that slowly trickles into these mountains, the “Best of the West” action figures had finally made their way into Appalachia. Years earlier, well-to-do-families had already purchased every available Barbie doll for their darling daughter, and all of the accoutrements including the Barbie Star Traveler travel van, pink beauty bath, and the trunk wardrobe.
I’m certain Momma purchased most of my Barbies, used.
Beneath Christmas trees across America, packages waited. Every little girl hoped for another new Barbie; one can’t have too many. In Appalachia, girls hope that this year, their Barbie wouldn’t be a hand-me-down, boys hoped the cardboard box wrapped in shiny paper wasn’t a new pair of shoes, but a replacement G.I. Joe action figure because theirs had accidentally melted in a fire when G.I. Joe waged war against an enemy whose names we couldn’t spell, much less pronounce. Mommas told their sons they would “never buy a replacement,” but a towheaded boy’s hangdog expression works wonders, even on the hardened heart of a woman with barely two dimes to scrape together.
The children of Appalachia didn’t play “dolls” inside a home with thick orange shag carpet, or at a dining room table with a china tea set waiting for a doll party to begin. They went outside and played war just like their daddy and uncle, or in some cases their brother’s had, if he was lucky enough to return home safely from Vietnam. Only the girly-girls still had pristine Barbies. Daughters of Appalachia had long-since lopped the hair off their prissy Barbie and whined until their mother made a proper set of clothing. Something to withstand the rough and tumble outdoor landscape. Something that made her equal to the men. The Barbie of our Appalachia wasn’t interested in marrying G.I. Joe, or Ken; she was interested in being better than them both.
My mother funded her Christmas shopping by sewing Barbie doll clothes and shipping what she created to my aunt, Mary Helen, in Myrtle Beach who had a connection with those of a higher social class with daughters whose Barbies were destined to marry a Ken and thus required the best possible dress to attract his attention. Mother knew the best dress required the best fabric and lace. Who better to get these items than from Agnes Lewis, who owned her own fabric store located in the Jackson Line community.
Upon acquiring a new shipment of fabric, Agnes always called mother before any of her other customers. The conversation went something like this.
“Catherine, I just got back from Georgia with a truckload of polyester.”
There’d be a pause as Agnes took a drag from a cigarette, the skinny kind because she thought Virginia Slims kept the pounds off and made you look like a lady. “I was lucky enough to wrestle me a bolt of crushed velvet out of the hands of this feller who thought he was stronger than me.”
I’m confident Agnes owned an original Barbie that could kick G.I. Joe straight to the curb.
“Got any lace?” Momma would ask. She always wanted lace. Ken liked a frill, or so Momma believed.
Momma loaded me into her Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme and we headed to Jackson Line. Agnes always had remnants from the blue jean factory, which were of particular interest because Momma needed inexpensive fabric if she was going to make any money off her doll-clothes side hustle. She’d spend hours hunched over her Singer sewing machine, then pack the clothes in a manila envelope and send them down the road, then stalk the mailbox for payment, which always arrived in cash.
Today’s Barbie doesn’t wear clothing made by a woman desperate to earn Christmas money, and that’s a shame.
Barbie’s popularity was threatened when the “Best of the West” action figures came off the assembly line. Born the brainchild of Louis Marx and Company and created to compete with the popular G.I. Joe, these action figures employed state of the art injection technology. Marx produced figures with articulated, bendable, knee joints. Johnny West was the original cowboy and of course, no cowboy is complete without a horse. Johnny’s trusty steed, Thunderbolt, was what my poppa would call a “palomino pony.” Not only was the horse exquisitely beautiful, Thunderbolt came with full tack including a halter and bridle.
In order to conquer the wild west, Johnny West needed a partner who came complete with a permanent plastic outfit in a delightful shade of blue that her husband could never remove no matter how hard he tried. She also featured plastic blond hair no scissor could ever harm. In 1967, Jane arrived with a full-fledged family of two daughters and two sons and a palomino called Flame who was an honest-to-God equine masterpiece with a powerful neck and plastic pure white mane.
Barbie and her family set out for grand adventures in their “Home on the Road” Star Traveler that came equipped with dishes and pots, tiny utensils and a tiny grill for flipping tiny burgers. Of course a shirtless Ken was at the wheel and Barbie’s arm was raised in a queenly wave as if to say, “Don’t you want to be like me?” Meanwhile, Jane West and her plastic family had a “Home on the Range” with a covered wagon and buckboard. Her family slept beneath the stars, like Appalachian folk are wont to do. She came complete with a branding iron, spurs, a gun belt, a Colt Peacemaker pistol, a Winchester rifle, a Derringer, a Bowie knife and a strongbox. Her accessories also included a frying pan, coffee pot and a cup, as did her husband, Johnny West. Good ole Hank Williams Jr. could have easily penned “A Country Girl Can Survive” based on the contents of the box Jane came in.
While Ken was trying to maneuver that Star Traveler through the McDonald’s drive through, Jane was probably frying up a jackrabbit to feed her family as the kids played with Flick and Flack, the family’s German Shepherd and English Setter. Also in the corral was an American Bison. What kid didn’t want to play with palomino horses and a buffalo?
The Jane I received wasn’t new. I’m sure she was purchased at a yard sale because most of her leather clothing was missing from the box. But Flame came with her and that was enough for me. I don’t recall ever owning more than one Ken doll, but I had several Barbies. As I look back at the Barbies and how each of them kissed Ken, I wonder why no one questioned Ken’s multiple partners. The Wests were a family; always Jane and her husband Johnny, with Jay, Janice, Josie and Jamie in tow.
Barbie taught children they could “be” anything. Jane West taught us we could “do” anything. And accomplish anything independently. We didn’t need long blond hair, because we knew someone would come along and change our appearance with one scissor snip. Jane came with the responsibility of children and animals to tend, much like our chores. It was this relationship with Jane that cultivated the Appalachian children of the 70s into self-starting, self-supporting leaders who didn’t take no for an answer and entered the workforce knowing that the sky was the limit.
We had grown up dreaming beneath a starry sky, holding up our plastic palomino ponies as they galloped into the night. The world was ours for the taking.