TOYS R US ...

Christmas 1941. This picture was made across the road from our home place. The board fence behind me was installed to keep kids out of Mrs. Picket's apple orchard. Scaling that barrier was a rite-of-passage easily passed by the smallest first grader.

The doll in my arms was a Christmas present. She had eyes that opened and closed ... real hair ... two tiny teeth peeking through slightly parted lips ... and best of all, a fur coat. On Christmas day, when turned on her stomach, she cried. I flipped her over a hundred times to be sure the cry still happened. It did. It did. It did. Then, suddenly, it didn't. My eight-year-old brother, catching my back turned, had performed a clumsy operation on her cloth body, removing all traces of the crying mechanism.

I chased him down and killed him for that crime. I killed him often during our growing up years.. He was a boy who required regular killing, and the rules of fighting were strongly in my favor. Boys could not hit girls, but girls could hit boys. I always waded into battle, swinging the biggest stick my small fingers could grasp, but on those rare occasions when a weapon actually made contact with my brother's head, grief over his injury instantly outweighed anger over his sin.

My brother ... My best friend in all the world ....

But ... I'm not talking about brothers today. I'm talking about toys.

Leafing through brightly colored glossy inserts in last Sunday's paper ... idly studying advertisements for toys ... I found myself in uncharted territory. Half-a-century ago, when Santa began leaving surprises for my children, the contents of his bag were simpler. Non-computerized. Cheap.

Kids were plentiful and dollars were scarce at our house. Children understood, at an early age, they would receive Christmas and birthday toys only. The excitement of Easter baskets and halloween treats completed their yearly program.

When Tony was three I created an indoor sandbox on the tile floor in his room by pouring several bags of white cornmeal into a large flat cardboard box with low sides. Tony sat outside the box, reaching in to create roads and mountains. He was the proud owner of a toy bulldozer, equipped to pick up sand in one area and deposit it in another. He loved that sandbox.

In the backyard was a red wagon with a squeaky wheel. I loved that wagon. It kept me informed of Tony's whereabouts ... until his well-meaning father ruined it all with one drop of oil.

Patti liked people better than things. She never tired of studying other children. Their loud squealing on high swings was far more interesting than swinging high herself. She didn't want to turn the handle of the Jack-in-the-Box, but she'd sit close beside another child and laugh at their startled expressions. She had no great desire for a sandbox of her own when she was two, but she found it entertaining to watch an angry four-year-old brother dig up the toy cow or dog or car she had so carefully buried.

Patti's favorite toy was a small elephant puppet. I sometimes entertained her and Tony with puppet shows, making up dialogue as I went along. Every story probably had a moral which was totally lost on both kids.

Carmen enjoyed books and animals. She could most often be found curled up in a corner with a dog on her lap and her head in a book. If some game required one more person, she could usually be pressed into service by her sisters, but she preferred the printed page.

One day I discarded a bunch of ragged, ruffled white window curtains. Carmen, Karen and Honey Gail grabbed them up and began planning the wedding to end all weddings. My dining room chairs were carefully lined up in the living room. Honey Gail hurriedly rounded up her many well-loved dolls ... all needing to be dressed and have their hair combed before attending the wedding.

I watched from the kitchen as the scene unfolded.

Eight-year-old Carmen was minister.
Karen, six, was in charge of music.
Honey, four, was the bride.

After cramming the last bite of peanut butter and jelly into her mouth and wiping sticky hands on the seat of her jeans, Karen sat at the organ and picked out the wedding march. Honey Gail wobbled slowly down the hall in a pair of my highest heels. Grape jelly on her pretty face was hardly noticeable behind the kitchen curtain/veil of illusion.

There was no groom.

No one seemed concerned.

Carmen stood with grave dignity and asked questions beginning with "Do you promise?" before wandering off into dialogue never before heard in a wedding ceremony. The bride didn't always respond with the proper "I do." The minister pinched the bride's arm. The bride, having little respect for clergy and none at all for sisters, pinched back. A fight broke out. Karen was spared having to play the recessional.

When Karen was three she had a dart gun with rubber tips and she developed a deadly aim, which made bending over laundry baskets a little nerve wracking for me. The toy soon disappeared.

Honey Gail loved her large family of baby dolls. Some, legally hers. The rest, hand-me-downs from older sisters. She named every doll Jamie. We never knew why.

Homemade fun was still popular back then.

Toys R Us would've gone bankrupt.