Toys Remembered: Men Recall Their Childhood Toys

Table of Contents

THE STORIES

CHILDHOOD REVISITED

Bobby Bernitt

THE RED RADIO FLYER WAGON

Bob Bernotus

TOYS IN THE ATTIC

E. P. Ned Burke

HOW I (AND OTHERS) SURVIVED MY CHILDHOOD

George C. Buzby

MY ONE-INCH PEACEMAKERS

George H. Buzby

THE BEST TOY I COULD IMAGINE

Jay (Jake) D. Carter

A TREASURE IN MY POCKET

Gary L. Christensen

THE FLYER

Patrick N. Cole

CHILDISH THINGS

Marshall J. Cook

PRAM WHEELS

Jack Dance

BOY TOYS

Rich Davies

A LIFE TRANSPORTED

Ken Devine

THE KITE

Rod DiGruttolo

SHARED TOYS

Daryl Dries

YA GOT TROUBLE, MY FRIEND

Gary Dries

MY BROTHER’S SMOKING GUN

Alan Evans

WHO’S ON FIRST? GOLD’S ON SECOND!

Len Gold

THE BEST PRESENT EVER

Russ Heitz

A STICK IN TIME

Jerry Hobbs

FINDING MY FIRE TRUCK

Mike Holahan

MY CHILDHOOD TOYS

Damian Hospital

THE BOY MAKES THE MAN

Bob Hubby

BILLY THE ROCKING HORSE

Roderic O. Jones, M.D.

HOW I LEARNED TO RIDE A BICYCLE

Valdis Kibens

REMEMBERING THE FLINTSTONES

Marc Lauterwasser

THE CASE OF THE FEATHERED WITNESS

Steve Levy

MY ALL-STAR DAYS

Steve Levy

WHO YOU GONNA CALL?

Kyle R. Martinak

WHO WAS CATNIP?

Larry Mason

LET’S PLAY MARBLES

Charles J. Mott

A MATCH PLAYED NEARLY IN HEAVEN

Charles J. Mott

FROM PUSHCARTS TO THE MOON

Virgil Muilenburg

THE NEXT GENERATION

Virgil Muilenburg

MY MAGIC CARPET

Kevin O’Horan

SPYDER MAN

Timothy O’Keefe

THE CHRISTMAS TOYS

Richard Ong

CHILDHOOD MAGIC

Jeff Owenby

TOYS ‘N’ GAMES

Jeff Owenby

THE SHIP THAT NEVER SAILED; THE PLANE THAT NEVER FLEW

George Parker

A CHRISTMAS GIFT

Larry Parr

I AM A NINJA TURTLE AND YOU CAN TOO

Chris Pranger

RESCUING THE PRINCESS FOR GLORY

Chris Pranger

JO JO THE CLOWN

Knick Pyles

IT WASN’T THE GUM

Russ Reiners

ARCADE TOYS

Mike Russell

TOY STORY

Seth Russell

ROLLING ALONG WITH THOMAS

Alex Solsma

MY SPECIAL GIFT

George Thomas

THAT’S NOT ALL, FOLKS

THE TOY STORY MOVIES

Marc Lauterwasser

CONSTRUCTION BLOCKS

Madonna Dries Christensen

IN THE GARDEN OF CHILDHOOD

Madonna Dries Christensen

TODAY’S BOYS

PLAYTIME TODAY

Madonna Dries Christensen

MY BUDDY

Benjamin Malstrom

THE STORYTELLERS

DOLLS REMEMBERED

FOREWORD

In Dolls Remembered (iUniverse 2009), women reminisced about their childhood dolls. In Toys Remembered, men have their say. Although many toys and games are common to a particular era, each boy’s experience is unique. The locales represent a cross-section of America, as well as the Philippines, Canada, England, and Latvia. Some stories are poignant, others are humorous; some are serious, others are tongue-in-cheek; still others slip into fantasy or whimsy, or are creatively dramatized.

Unlike Dolls Remembered, which focused on a single plaything, this collection required opening a bigger box of crayons. First, I needed to establish: What is a toy? The dictionary defines a toy as something a child plays with or uses in play. So, is a stick strummed across a picket fence a toy? When in the hands of children, do maple tree seed pods become toy helicopters? Was the old Underwood typewriter on which Nelle Harper Lee and Truman Persons (later Capote) pecked out stories, a toy? Must a toy be tangible, or might it be as weightless as a whisper secreted in a boy’s small fist? Keep an open mind.

Second, as the stories arrived, I saw that these reminiscences are not only about toys; they are about indoor and outdoor games and the arena in which they were played. In sum, this anthology is about boyhood. Boyhood remembered. One writer called it, The magic and wonder and marvel of that time of life; the simplicity and innocence of childhood.

Initially, some men were reluctant to write about their childhood. But, once persuaded, they drifted into the past and seemingly enjoyed their sojourn. There even developed among a few friends (you know who you are) a good-natured rivalry about which of them had written the piece de resistance; the story by which all others would be judged. As if they were, indeed, boys squabbling on the playground. One of these men tried using the nom de plume Aaron Aardvark in order to gain first placement in the alphabetical order of the stories. It didn’t work, but the attempt was fun.

Beri Fox, CEO of Marble King, helped me locate the National Marbles Tournament Champion of 1942. He sent his story and two wonderful photographs. I discovered a Website on which men in their twenties were waxing nostalgic about their childhood toys, so I invited them to submit a story. Actually, there are dozens of sites and blogs dedicated to discussions about the toys of baby boomers and those a decade or two younger. It seems that no matter our age or gender, childhood toys keep a tenacious hold on us.

I wondered, though, given the countless number of toys that many of today’s children acquire, if a particular plaything will last in memory. I asked a few boys; their responses are included in a special section. From the looks on the faces of the two boys who grace the covers of this book, it appears that trains and cars and trucks have a timeless fascination.

The idea for this anthology came from my son-in-law, George Buzby. After reading Dolls Remembered, he wrote to me:

A companion book of such recollections by men would be nice. I’m encouraged to write a recollection of my toy soldiers. Maybe you could get Grandfather to write about playing with soldiers made of sticks, and Dad about casting lead soldiers. I will speak to Dad about contributing something. Perhaps we both can work on Grandfather. It might be useful to prod him with the point that when he’s gone, whatever he’s written may be the only lingering echo of his voice that William will hear. If he writes nothing, that will be what William hears. Selfishly, I’d also like to read what Grandfather has to say.

I’m happy to have a book of my grandpop’s recollections. That book, stories my dad told me, a few personal recollections, and what I can glean from pictures and possessions are all I have of a man who died when I was six. It’s woefully insufficient information about a man who clearly lived an interesting life, which spanned WWI, post-war China, Chairmanship of a corporation, and experiences raising my dad and his sister.

These comments illustrate the value of family stories, oral and written. Often, this revelation comes at middle-age when we have families of our own and are eager to connect our children with past generations. Each story here is a singular family heirloom. It is also part of a collective history of playthings and games from one era to the next.

Many thanks to the men and boys who contributed stories. They generously agreed to no monetary compensation so that royalties could be donated to Down Syndrome Association of Northern Virginia. Thanks to our readers, too, who bought this anthology.

Madonna Dries Christensen

Sarasota, Florida

Iowagirl1@aol.com

www.madonnadrieschristensen.com

THE STORIES

CHILDHOOD REVISITED

Bobby Bernitt

Once upon a time long ago a little boy grew up in the New York City Borough of the Bronx. I was that boy.

It was a wonderful time. When not in school, I was sent outside early in the morning with the only instruction: Be home for dinner. If I was lucky, I got a nickel to ride the subways for the day. I thought then that our family was well-off compared to our neighbors, but looking back I guess we just scraped by, thanks to my mother’s handling of the finances.

How he could afford it, I’ll never know, but one Christmas my dad brought home a set of Lionel Trains, and another set the following year. Accessories were added every year thereafter. Perhaps it was because he was a child at heart and enjoyed the trains as much as I did. They were the electronic marvel of their day. Sadly, my father brought them out only at Christmastime and for a short while only, before they were boxed and put away for the next year.

The toys I cherished most during the days between Christmases were those that money didn’t buy:

■ Wooden go-carts made from scrap lumber and baby carriage wheels borrowed from carriages in the basement storage room of the apartment house we lived in. I made a go-cart for my son when he was six-years-old and still have a delightful Super 8mm film of him going downhill in it.

■ Slingshots and whistles each made from the branches of a single weeping willow tree that survived the blight of a vacant Bronx lot. Rubber for the sling shot came from an old bicycle tire tube.

■ Scooters created from a found roller skate that was separated into front and back halves and mounted on a scrap piece of lumber. I guess these evolved into the costly skateboards of today’s youth.

■ Stickball. Every City kid knew how to set up a game. Simply cut off the stick from Mom’s broom or mop and fish a pink Spauldeen (Spaulding) ball from the nearest sewer, where some younger child had allowed it to be swallowed up. This was done by fashioning a wire coat hanger into a loop and with long arms and while lying on your stomach, reaching into the sewer to retrieve the ball.

Once, while fishing for Spauldeens, we caught a tennis ball. None of my friends had ever seen one. We proceeded to abrade the felt off by rubbing the ball on the sidewalk. Lo and behold, a Spauldeen was under the fuzz. Stickball games were always played in the middle of the street with a manhole cover the location of second base. Other bases were made from random materials or were outlined in the road if someone happened to have a piece of chalk. Punch Ball was a variation if you couldn’t get a stick. Spauldeens were also used to play Box Ball, King Queen, and Stoopball, directions obtained from anyone who grew up in the Bronx.

■ Then there was flipping picture cards, which consisted of matching your opponents flip of heads or tails, with winner take all.

■ Cowboys and Indians. We played with makeshift bows and arrows made from tree branches and waxing a piece of cord commandeered from Mom’s junk drawer. We were then ready to take on those rich kids who had cowboy pistols their parents actually BOUGHT for them.

■ Chestnuts. Every autumn we went on a hike in a distant park to harvest horse chestnuts and age them to rock hardness for at least a year. When they were deemed hard enough, a hole was bored through them using a nail that was heated over a gas stove or in a fire we made in a vacant lot. Shoelaces knotted on one end were inserted into the hole and voila—our dueling chestnut was ready to compete with all comers.

■ Yo-Yos. With guilt I remember the time we heard that a Duncan Yo-Yo expert from Puerto Rico was giving lessons outside the local movie theater and then would conduct a contest on stage with prizes to the winners. Naturally, I had to go—but no Yo-Yo. Luckily, there was a Woolworth’s 5 & 10 store next to the movie theater. With friends acting as lookouts, I helped myself to a Yo-Yo. Getting the ten cent admission to the theater was simple: merely scrounge five Pepsi or Coke bottles and redeem the deposit for two cents each.

The Yo-Yo man artfully carved my initials on my new-found Yo-Yo and yours truly had the distinction of capturing First Prize, a green jacket with Yo-Yo Champion embroidered on the back and Duncan Yo-Yo patches sewn all over it. (You see, I had practiced on borrowed Yo-Yos for months.)

■ Cereal box tops mailed off netted Lone Ranger secret rings and whistles and even a four bladed scout knife. The knife provided endless pleasure, playing Land, and Mumblety-Peg. I still remember all the moves of Mumblety-Peg.

■ There were other wonderful pastimes: Ring-A-Levio, Hide And Seek, and Johnny Ride a Pony (which some called Buck Buck—How Many Horns Are Up?). All that was needed was four or more pals.

■ We pitched pennies, played marbles, and used pea shooters that were acquired by cashing in soda bottles.

Somehow my friends and I always knew intuitively what games the next day would bring. No two days were ever the same. Every morning, long before e-mail, texting, or Twitter, we all appeared outside with a Spauldeen, marbles, picture cards, knife, or Yo-Yo in hand. Evenings were spent falling asleep to the Lone Ranger or other favorite radio programs. Bear in mind that the rule for all games was always no girls allowed, that is until about age 13, when someone’s older sister introduced us to Spin The Bottle. It’s odd how time changes the loves of our lives. Other things take precedence as we grow and mature. Thank goodness for memories.

By the way, I’m now going on 74 years of age and still have my trains. I set them up and ran them for my grandson and my wife a few years ago. Of course it was Christmastime.

If you come over, I’ll let you see my scout knife, three Yo-Yos (a Cheerio sanded smooth and two Duncan’s, a red one and a green one with my initials still visible and studded with six real diamonds). I might even let you hold them.

THE RED RADIO FLYER WAGON

Bob Bernotus

In the 1950s, my dad worked hard at the steel mill all week, trying to scrape together enough to raise ten kids and keep us all in Catholic school. Every night during the week, he came home from work exhausted and fell into a chair to listen to the radio. But Friday night was for time with his friends.

Along about eight o’clock on Friday nights, after the six of us kids who were still left at home had finished eating, Mom would say, It’s time to go get your dad, Bobby.

Out the door I’d go, down the railroad tracks, turn right and down two blocks to find my dad at the tavern, having shots and beers. Every time he saw me, his face split open into a grin. Hey, Bobbyo. What you doin’, Kiddo?

Your supper’s ready, Dad.

I steadied his steps as we walked back home to our little rented home.

Every cent had to be accounted for, including what Dad spent for his shots and beers on Friday night. We could hardly afford them, but Mom considered them reward for all his hard work.

It became painfully aware just how scarce money was when the nuns said, in front of a schoolroom full of kids, Bernotus! Your parents haven’t sent your quarter for this month’s tuition. Do you have it?

Under the staring glares of the other students, I’d shake my head and look down, wanting to be anywhere but in that classroom.

One Friday night, I found Dad sitting on the bar stool next to another mill worker, striking up some kind of a deal. Three dollars, Dad said, and not a cent more.

Six, Frank, said. You know how much they cost new?

It ain’t new, though, Dad said. It’s been beat up by three of your kids. Four dollars. And that’s final.

Five, Frank countered. Five bucks and it’s yours. And you might wanna throw in a shot and a beer.

Dad pulled out six wrinkled hard-earned singles, gave one to the bartender for another round, and the rest he gave to Frank, who scooted out the front door and came back in pulling a red Radio Flyer wagon behind him.

Is that for us? I asked Dad.

It sure is, Bobbyo. Dad emptied his shot, slugged back his beer, and climbed off his bar stool. Let’s go home.

But what will Mom say?

Ah, she’ll love it, Kiddo. You’ll see. Dad clapped his arm around my shoulder, and we started off down the street.

With each revolution, one of the wheels screamed, Shreeee. There we were, a tall, beanpole man, steadied by a short eight-year- old, pulling a squeaky wagon.

Mom was waiting with Dad’s warmed-up supper when we got home. She eyed the wagon suspiciously. Where’d that come from?

It was a bargain, Dad said.

What we need that for?

"You’ll see tomorrow. I’m takin’