Dolls and Tornadoes

Some people collect dolls. I avoided those at all costs. The only time I ever remember playing with a doll involved a tornado, being about nine, a little girl younger than I was who was crying, and being in the basement of someone else’s house. There was also hail. Lots of hail.

Actually, that’s not quite true. My mom once made me a Laura Ingalls doll — yarn braids, calico dress, the whole pioneer bit. She even had a tent. I loved that thing because my mom made it. My sister named hers Wendy Ingalls. It’s the only doll I ever actually played with.

That summer I collected tornadoes, but that’s a different blog.

Some people collect classic cars. That seems like a lot of work, a lot of time, and a lot more money than I have to invest. At one point, I decided to collect key chains because I thought it would be unique. It didn’t take long to find another sixteen-year-old collector. Now, my goal is to carry the smallest number of keys possible, so key chains are low on the list as well.

First Collection: Bullies

The first thing I ever collected was bullies. Her name was Heidi Hammond. She was the kind of girl whose parents pulled children out of class and placed them elsewhere. If she said you had friends, you had friends. If she said you didn’t…well, you get the picture.

My family moved to her town in the harshest winter in that western Colorado town’s history. We were living in a fifth-wheel camper while trying to build our own house. My parents were building it themselves. In the winter. In the coldest winter…ever. Did I mention it was cold?

Heidi’s family graciously took us in and let us live in their basement until we could move into the house.

My Personal Nellie Oleson

This was in the days of Little House on the Prairie. I loved that show. Heidi did too. She was my own personal Nellie Olesen. And I was her Laura Ingalls. It didn’t help that my name is Laura.

Heidi took notes. She copied everything Nellie did and used it on me. I, the girl living in her basement, was at her mercy under strict orders from my mother to be nice. When Nellie — I mean Heidi — did something, I had to let it go. When she stood me under a tree and knocked a nest of larval caterpillars into my hair, I ran away screaming… and let it go.

In one episode, Nellie Oleson pretended she couldn’t walk for attention. The next week, Heidi was on crutches, then a wheelchair. Surprise. If Nellie played a trick on Laura, Heidi played it on me.

My mom once told me Heidi beat me up sometimes, but I honestly don’t remember that. I remember the mental abuse. I remember how she got away with it. I remember how obvious she was.

I don’t know how long we stayed in their house, but Heidi remained my personal Nellie Oleson for as long as I lived there. She bullied everyone. Not that it’s a consolation when you’re a first or second grader.

Playground Persona

I had the opportunity to become a bully in third and fourth grade. I was in a different school, a different state. I had new friends and was acting tough. I didn’t want the same experience, so I tried to make sure no one could push me around again. If a boy needed to be stood up to, I was your gal.

My best friend and I took on all the boys in dodgeball every day at lunch. And we beat them. They never realized only having two people was an advantage over twenty. We couldn’t miss, and we had lots of room to duck.

But my friends also came to me when they needed someone to talk to about home, someone being mean, or whatever else bothered them. Being the tough kid and the safe kid was a balancing act I hadn’t mastered.

Then one day, a new girl came to school who looked a lot like me. We weren’t related. Just coincidence. But I was tough, and my friends were hyping me up.

“Hey, that girl’s got your face!” one said.
“What are you gonna do? You were here first!” another asked.
“You gonna beat her up?”

It was silly — the idea of beating someone up because we looked alike. But I had to be tough. I let them rile me up for several days.

By then, the playground bully rumor had reached the girl. She stayed on the far side of the playground. I didn’t want a fight. I didn’t want to hurt her. But I didn’t know how to step out of the persona I had created.

Finally, at the end of the week, I approached her. She had a group surrounding her. My “posse” was behind me. They asked if I was going to do it now. Her group told me to leave her alone.

I ignored everyone and asked if she wanted to play. Until that moment, I hadn’t known how to build a bridge. I hadn’t wanted to scare anyone. I wasn’t trying to be a bully or mean. I just didn’t want to relive the experience.

Learning Hard Kindness

Seeing her protected and safe, I realized I was protected and safe too. Even though my friends had been egging me on, they were just protecting the persona I had created. They were protecting me as much as the other girl’s friends protected her. I wasn’t alone anymore.

I certainly collected more bullies over time, worse ones. But I don’t have to let them change me. There are still people who try to bully us as adults. I don’t have to respond with bluster. I don’t have to just let it go. I can stand up for myself — a hard kindness to learn, a skill to master.

Nellie Oleson left the show for several years. When she returned, she was completely changed. Not just surface-level nice. True internal change. The kind that comes from deep reflection. The kind that comes from facing your own reflection and being disgusted by what you see.

I’ve had several of those moments in life. They’ve led to huge, life-altering changes. That’s the kind of 180-degree change Nellie Oleson had.

I’ve always wondered if Heidi Hammond followed her that far.

Update: December 2025

This morning I spoke with my mom, and she confirmed what I’ve always carried: things with Heidi Hammond were as bad as I remember. They got so bad that the only way to keep me safe was to send me far away. She sent me eight hours across the state to live with my grandparents.

We had been outsiders there; we weren’t Mormon in a deeply Mormon community. Being different made me fair game. My mom knew we couldn’t fight back, couldn’t even push too hard without making everything worse. So she did the hardest, kindest thing she could: she removed me from the harm.

Heidi never had to look in the mirror I might have held up. But because my mom carried me to safety, I grew up with the space to learn how to hold gentler mirrors for others — and to step in early when I see someone else in the line of fire.

I’m sharing this not for pity, but because so many of us never got the tidy redemption scene Nellie did. Sometimes survival looks like distance. And sometimes the greatest kindness is the long drive that gets you there.

Thank you, Mom. And thank you for reading this far.

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