My "Little Women" Doll

I was named after Little Women’s “Beth.” As many of you know, she was the very good, self-sacrificing third daughter of the March family in Louise May Alcott’s civil war book. In 1949, my parents gave me a Madame Alexander “Beth” doll for Christmas. I can remember how excited I was that Christmas we spent at my Grandmother Hansen’s house in Monroe, Utah, and I saw that big doll (15 inches high) under the Christmas tree. I thought it was the most heavenly present I could ever get. 

The years prior to that had been very hard financially for my family; however, things had looked up and I think my family splurged that Christmas. I know that doll must have cost a lot more than any other gift I ever got for Christmas before or after that year. 

1949 Madame Alexander "Beth" doll

I loved that doll. It was special to me because it had my name, and as I got older, my mother told me about the story of Little Women and their life so long ago. I always took very good care of my doll. I never got her dirty, or acted like she was a baby doll. I knew she was special. As I became older and read the story, I identified, not with “Beth,” but with her sister, Jo, the author of the story. 

That doll was very precious, and as our family grew to seven children, that doll became a symbol of a time when I got a very valuable and expensive present.

When I was nine-years-old my mother had her first bout with breast cancer, and money became very tight. I shared a room with my two younger sisters and had very little privacy, but my doll was a symbol of something precious that was my own. I adored that doll and took very good care of her. I didn’t play with her a lot, but always made sure her clothes were clean, neat and that she looked very nice. She sat on a special place on my bed.

As I grew, I didn’t play with the “Beth” doll, but I always made sure she was in her special place. I always made sure her hair was neat and the little hair net kept it from being messy. I never lost her shoes or socks, and never let my younger sisters play with her. I told them she was not a “play doll” but a “collectible” doll—one you just looked at. 

When I was 14-years-old my mother had her second bout with breast cancer, and she was never really well again. As the oldest girl in the family, I had to take over a lot of the housework, and the care of the younger children, including my youngest sister, (I was 13-years-old when she was born). 

I worked part time after school my senior year to earn enough money to go away to college. I finally had my own bedroom, and my “Beth” doll said in a place of honor on my hope chest, as I dreamed of what I would become in the future. More and more I knew I wanted to write like Jo in Little Women. I also was very rebellious as a senior in high school, and as I looked at the “Beth” doll, I thought how I couldn’t be like her. I felt like I was letting my mother down, not being her ideal “Beth” as she’d dreamed I would be; but I also knew I had to be myself.

I went to Utah State University the fall after I graduated from high school; I left my bedroom to younger siblings, and all my belongings, too. I was so excited about my new adventures; I never wondered what would happen to my precious “Beth” doll.

When I finished my first year of college and moved back home, no one knew where my “Beth” doll was. It was gone. My youngest sister remembered playing with it, but nothing more than that. No one knew what had happened to it. My mother was dying, and the house was in turmoil. I became engaged the summer after I moved home, and got married that fall. I never did find my “Beth” doll or what had happened to it. 

My first Danish doll

I began collecting dolls after I got married, when my brother was serving a mission in Denmark and sent me a Danish doll. Since then I’ve bought many dolls from many countries, including a complete set of eight inch Madame Alexander “Little Women” dolls. I even have dolls from all over the world showing women doing different work. 

But I’ve always told my children about my conflict about being named Beth, but feeling like Jo. (Although, in the book Beth catches scarlet fever, and dies; in Hawaii, I caught scarlet fever and was very sick, especially when I developed glomerular nephritis. However, unlike the fictional Beth, I recovered.) I recently took four of my granddaughters to see the musical “Little Women” at Centerpoint Theater and told them the story of my name. 

Several years ago, my oldest son in Seattle had twins, a boy and a girl. He told me they’d named the girl after me. They’d named her Josephine—but planned on calling her Jo—my alter-ego. We had a good laugh because I know that’s the closest I’ll come to having any grandchildren named after me. 

My current "Jo" Doll

My current "Beth" doll