The attic was cobwebby with memories. Somehow, it was another dimension and my hours spent in rainy day explorations gave me a heartbeat in a time period before my conception. Together, my elderly friend, affectionately referred to as "Grandpa Frank" and I lived through Vallejo, California's Black Plague (his mother saved her 4 children by burning sulfur and bathing them in "sheep dip"), and watched San Francisco burn during the Big Quake of 1906 from a South Vallejo hillside. We saw the now ravaged old Delta King reflect her lights and party music along Vallejo's waterfront as well as read personal correspondence concerning the Lindbergh baby and Amelia Earhart's tragic disappearance. The attic held journals, roaring twenties memorabilia, a 60 year old piece of wedding cake, and Grandma's trunk that had everything but Grandma in it - literally. We found her teeth, locks of hair, a fingernail, clothing, a bone ex-ray and a vial of an unknown substance that looked like it came from a medical lab. But of all the memorabilia, the hand-made chest carefully placed in the corner near a wall was the most moving. Constructed over 40 years past by my friend, it's contents were by comparison, sacred relics and tangible memories of the cherub faced child, blue eyed with blonde curls, whose picture was on the wall downstairs. "Baby Darryl" had made his place in my heart by transition of a soul-to-soul friendship through the eyes and memory of my aged friend. Twice I had dreamt about the child - happy dreams of holding a laughing child, having the affectionate youngster run toward me and hug my legs as toddlers often do, full of joy. Among the baby clothes and funeral bows was a rag doll clown. My child's heart would not let me put him back in that forgotten place. "Grandpa Frank" gave into me, guardedly so, with a firm promise to "take good care of that doll. He belonged to my boy". My poem is about the doll as I see with my heart in the most essential of ways.

Darryl was 4 days short of 20 months old when the angels came for him. He had received a DT protective injection with a needle that was contaminated. Parantinitis developed. Six months later a new drug called penicillin would have saved his life. Darryl's last words at Children's hospital in San Francisco, moments before death, were "oooohhh see!", and he pointed to the corner of the ceiling in his room. His parents saw nothing. It was December 3, 1938.

One Day I went to visit Grandpa Frank. When he did not respond, I peeked through the window on his back door and saw him slumped over in a chair. I got the key that I knew was hidden under the porch and went inside. He was gone. I wrote the following poem shortly after his death. I finished it in several hours.

Rag Doll Clown

Perched atop the Christmas Tree as if to call out "Look at me!"

Sits the faded clown rag doll, who's Lord and Master over all.

His face, aglow, reflects the light of flashing bulbs that dazzle bright

Upon his tinseled throne of pine bejeweled with treasures so divine

As crystal snowflakes, golden bells, feathered birds and bread dough elves

Clothespin soldiers, angels, deer - a Christmas card of yester-year.

O'er such a kingdom he's content, this rag doll clown of sentiment.

His hand sewn smile expresses joy. He's such a friendly, happy toy

That long ago was placed to rest, with sadness, in a handmade chest

By heavy hearts that could not bear to part with locks of golden hair,

The little shoes, and baby clothes, a soiled stuffed dog and funeral bows.

All memories of their blue-eyed love the angels took to God above.

A special friend, so very kind, old in years but young in mind

Who shared his love and life with me and told me bits of history

About world wars, about our town - it was from him I got the clown.

One dreary rainy afternoon we went up to his attic room,

A mystery spot of sentiment, where we would laugh and be content

To look a tin types, have long talks, and it was there we found the box

Placed in the corner near the wall, of baby things that held the doll.

My heart was warmed. The old man smiled as he spoke proudly of his child.

Rediscovering things so dear, I almost felt the baby near.

As I held the little clown, I somehow, couldn't put him down.

"What's his name? Who made this doll," I asked. The man could not recall.

"He seems glad, so very pleased to be out of the box," I teased.

"Look at him. He almost talks! 'Please don't put me in that box.'

His face is pleading, full of fright. He wants to see the day and night."

The old man gruffly voiced the words that what I said was for the birds.

He sternly looked me in the eye. "A doll can't feel" was his reply.

'Twas my imagination, true. Its sentiment had left me blue.

My tears said all there was to tell. "Take the doll Dear. Treat it well,"

Said my friend. He understood. I'd love the doll. He knew I would.

I sat the keepsake in a place where all who came could see his face.

It really pleased the tough old fellow to see the faded green and yellow clown atop my Christmas Tree. "He does seem happier to me,"

Smiled the man with a "Hi old boy!" quite enchanted by the toy.

Later when he came to call, he'd always say "hi" to the doll

And when he did, he always smiled. Perhaps he thought about his child.

I miss my friend one-day he died. I was hurt. So lost inside.

The doll is sewn with dearer thread. It represents what two friends said.

Laughter, talking, lots of fun, an attic room, a baby son.

It signifies much more to me perched atop my Christmas Tree

For love, joy and memory mingles in a faded clown doll I call Jingles.

Written with love by Jennifer Grant with memories of Frank George and his beautiful child Darryl Francis

born 3/7/36 died 12/3/38