Toys are us, and I don’t mean the store itself.
Even though I am 45 years old, I have found myself wandering around the toy aisles lately, getting lost in the shelves of battery-operated dogs and lifelike baby dolls. I remember all the toys which kept me entertained for years — that red square Etch A Sketch with the little round knobs on either side for drawing awkward shapes to resemble my dog George or whatever else my imagination allowed me to see. Then with one shake it all went away for me to begin again. Don’t we wish that was a metaphor for life sometimes?
I also remember my Cousin Misty’s giant Barbie head that I played with for hours on end. Yes, I rolled, combed, teased and styled Barbie’s hair to perfection, wishing I could have loved a Barbie head all my own. Alas, it was the wrong time and place. Then there was my “Dukes of Hazard” remote controlled race car just like the one Bo and Luke sported in the TV show. It was bright orange with blinking headlights, a real horn, and probably drove my mama absolutely crazy speeding around the linoleum floors of our kitchen as she tried to mop or enjoy her cup of coffee in peace. Of course, she had four sons, so there was probably not much peace to be had.
Toys remind us of the childlike innocence within us all. Just the sight of all the Barbie dolls lined up on the shelves in the toy store looking out at me from their boxes reminds me of a time when the biggest stressor in my life was not having enough time in the day to finish a color-by-number painting of a horse, or perhaps not having enough BBs to arm my Daisy BB gun, used to shoot glass Coca-Cola bottles from a distance with one eye squinted.
The Lite Brite with all the colored pegs, my Monopoly game, the Atari video game Daddy gave in and bought me for Christmas, the Ms. Pac-Man which captivated me for a season — all these memories make me smile from a deep place inside.
I loved every toy under the sun, from Monchichi to Cabbage Patch Kids and Hot Wheels to my favorite ventriloquist dolls. Most important among those voice-throwing marvels was Simon Sez, from the JCPenney catalog, which was delivered to my house in the country with his own red case. I performed for Mama and Daddy every night until I could not even discern who was real, Simon or me. I even took him to school and performed for my entire fifth-grade class.
I wonder what ever happened to Simon. For that matter, I wonder what happened to all my toys. Perhaps Peter Pan had it right and we should all get lost in the toy aisles from time to time and refuse to grow up.
Email reaches former Columbus resident David Creel at [email protected].
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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