In Tom Paxton’s 1970 song “The Marvelous Toy,” a wee lad gets a gift from his father that’s mysterious and delightful. It goes “zip,” “bop” and “whir”; it dashes around the room with gleeful energy. And despite — or because of — the toy’s enigmatic nature, it’s the plaything he’s most eager to pass on to his own son, who falls in love with it all over again.
That ditty kept popping into my memory as I reported a series of columns about toys and play. I realized that one test of a great toy its ability to evoke lasting joy. So I asked a group of Post Opinions writers and artists to tell me about the best toy they ever got or gave as a gift.
My answer? As a child, I built flowers and towers out of Galt Octons, translucent, rainbow-hued plastic wafers that could be slotted together with a careful hand. Now, my children construct whole cities with today’s equivalent Magna-Tiles and then set their toys free to play. A rubber construction worker named Papa Roader lives in a modest house with two squashy corgi fidgets; Calico Critters park monster trucks in kaleidoscopic high rises. Cathedrals, bridges and even a scale model of our house rise from the rug. Kids are such sweet mysteries; Magna-Tiles are the closest I can get to seeing inside their busy, remarkable brains.
Now you tell us: What’s the best toy you ever got or gave?
Growing up in a rural village in China, toys were the last thing parents wanted to pay for. I owned only one real stuffed toy — a pink bear about the size of an adult’s hand, with green hands, ears and nose.
With Pink Bear serving as my knight, I transformed into a fearless princess navigating perilous space odysseys. Together, we triumphed over nail-shaped and screw-shaped aliens. During quieter moments, Pink Bear was the attentive audience to my repeat readings of Hans Christian Andersen’s “Fairy Tales” and “The Arabian Nights.” When it got dark, Pink Bear and I embarked on a different kind of quest. She scared off bats, mice, owls and snakes and dragons — some of my foes were imaginary — though she was never good at mosquitoes.
I was aware of my family’s struggles at an early age. But I never felt lonely, thanks to Pink Bear. She wasn’t just stuffed fabric but an irreplaceable childhood ally. — Yan Wu is a graphics developer in Opinions
I will never forget my first real big-boy toy. I wasn’t quite ready for the dirt bikes the big kids had, but my parents found the next step up at the department store in 1981: the Green Machine. Longer and cooler than my old Big Wheel, the Green Machine was much harder to drive because it had stick-shift steering; steering wheels were for babies. Yet my parents felt that I could handle it. Forty years later, I’m a parent, and the Green Machine is my little reminder that a child’s every step toward independence, not just the first, matters. — Theodore R. Johnson is a contributing Opinions columnist
When I was around 16, I got my first bicycle. It was used, and the handlebar was crooked, but my older brother helped me fix it. They’re amazing machines, so efficient, and they take you so far with so little effort. Kids gain freedom to explore the neighborhood — the whole city! — Sergio Peçanha is a visual columnist
When I was perhaps 6 years old, my parents came home from an antique auction with a doughty toy stove. Not just a wooden model, nor an Easy-Bake Oven, which used the heat of incandescent lightbulbs to bake little cakes. Mine was an actual working electric range. You could make a mini pan of stew or a tiny hunk of roast; the burners on top would fry an egg — or tiny hands. Instead of playing cook, I could actually be one, following right along with my mother as she worked at the kitchen stove.
Whatever burns I gave myself were more than made up for by the cooking skills I gained and the joy of turning play into reality. — Megan McArdle is an Opinions columnist
When I was a kid (way before the advent of the iPad), my parents gave me a VTech Video Painter. It plugged into the TV, so while I drew on the pad in front of me, I could see the image emerge on the big screen, allowing me to refine every little detail of the image. I regularly commandeered the family-room TV to draw elaborate illustrations of Tom and Jerry-style scenarios, featuring big cats, clever mice, holes in the wall and, of course, cheese. I insisted my mother take photos of my creations, thrilled by the attention they got on the big screen. — Michelle Kondrich is a Post Opinions designer
The most memorable toy I ever received was an authentic-looking M1 Garand rifle used by U.S. troops in World War II. As a kid owner of such a menacing replica, I became a sought-after participant in the pickup game of “war” that we boys played in my Foggy Bottom/West End neighborhood.
In the 1940s, our city was racially segregated by law and custom. But guns were part of our collective ethos: D.C. was steeped in stories of war, and people young and old, White and Black, found entertainment in Saturday movie matinees where clean-shaven guys, sporting white hats and pearl-handled pistols, shot to death scores of scruffy and unshaven “bad guys.” Toy pistols, BB guns and fake hand grenades were as common in my neighborhood as the air we breathed.
I learned the grim consequences of real guns through U.S. Army service and as a State Department special agent. Our pretend play with guns was all about power and control. It was a mistaken game to learn. — Colbert I. King is an Opinions columnist
As a child, I poured over the colorful photographs in my “Horses” guidebook from DK Smithsonian. Breyer Stablemates miniature horses made the beauty and power captured in those photos tangible. My older brother would covertly buy me more Stablemates from the wall rack at our neighborhood trophy shop. There didn’t need to be an occasion — if he noticed I’d had a rough week at school, I sometimes found a Stablemate in its blue-ribbon-shaped cardboard packaging propped against my dresser. — Chloe Coleman is an Opinions senior photo assignment editor
Growing up as an only child, I craved companionship. I gave numerous PowerPoint presentations arguing that a pet would benefit the entire family, even accounting for my parents’ allergies. One warm Eid morning, I woke to find a beautifully wrapped present in the kitchen and a spotted, fluffy Furby inside. I learned how to take care of the creature — by “feeding” it, putting it down for naps, giving it commands and, most important, brushing its fur. My friends defaced their critters with markers and glitter. But for me, my Furby was the puppy I couldn’t have, and the friendly presence I needed at home. — Zainab Mudallal is an Opinions senior operations editor
As a girl in the late 1970s, I was enthralled by the Barbie Fashion Face my parents got me for Christmas. Sure, she was a disembodied head. But her looks were pristine — so immaculate, in fact, that I used the comb, brush, curlers, barrettes, jewelry and makeup to decorate the dolls who felt more in need of my woeful styling skills than Barbie herself. I was delighted to simply gaze at her like a plastic work of art. Sometimes you can’t improve on perfection. You just have to find another way to play. — Danielle Kunitz is an Opinions senior designer
My reputation in the family is She Who Does Not Like Games. In truth, I have not yet overcome my need to appear clever, which makes every round of Boggle, Scrabble, Codenames and Pictionary feel like a test. The one game I do happily play is Sorry, which is governed by luck — a 6-year-old could play. Though my kids are now 18, 21 and 23, Sorry can still hold them in convivial orbit when they’re home. Around that board, we can trash talk and tease, we can groan and cheer, we can act genuinely or sarcastically “sorry.” But, blessedly, there’s really no way to be clever. — Kate Cohen is an Opinions contributing columnist
login
who are we?
contact us
qosheapp
Toi Staff
Gideon Levy
Belen Fernandez
Andrew Mitrovica
Mort Laitner
Ali Fathollah-Nejad
Rami G Khouri
Nikkei Editorial
visit website
