Remembering Joanne Hauschild Kastrul

 In sorting through my digitized family photos lately, I've been especially touched by those of my oldest cousin, Joanne. She died last year in February, just days after her 84th birthday, of pancreatic cancer. Because it was a cancer with a poor prognosis and often rapid spread, Joanne chose to forego treatment for that reason and another more important one: She had met the love of her life just 15 years before. "He is the most wonderful man I've ever met," she told me just months before her death, saying that she wanted every moment of quality time with him--without the side effects of treatments unlikely to extend her life. The wonderful man was Jack Kastrul. Joanne and Jack married in 2008--her for the first time, he for the second--at the tender ages of 72 and 71.

Another wonderful man in Joanne's opinion was Joe Biden, who she thought was just about the kindest man she had ever heard in the political arena. She would have proudly cast her vote for Joe and Kamala had she lived, and when Joe and Kamala succeeded, I felt I had to celebrate double--for me and Joanne, and of course, for the world too.

Here are Jack and Joanne on their wedding day. In front are me--one of the lucky maids of honor, my sister Joan and brother-in-law Jim. Also part of the wedding party were Sandee Kastrul, Jack's daughter, and her partner Kim Crutcher. We all felt like we were creating a new family that day.

Joanne and Jack's wedding reflected one of the important things that brought them together: love of the Bible. What was somewhat unusual was that Jack was Jewish and Joanne Catholic. Their wedding, at the Catholic church Joanne had long attended in her Chicago neighborhood of Rogers Park, included a priest and a rabbi--something unthinkable in my Catholic childhood. They continued attending services--both at a church and a synagogue--for several years after their marriage. They also shared a love of music, having met in a choir. It seemed to me that for the ensuing decade each gave the other what they most needed--a family. Joanne, who had no siblings or children, had lived with her late mother, Marie, for decades. Jack had lost his beloved first wife, Clair, to cancer years before.

Before their marriage, I had met Joanne yearly on my visits to Chicago, and our relationship bloomed again after years of relatively little contact. Starting in the late 90s, we would usually make a date to go to the cemetery, where my mother, her mother and adopted father were buried. Joanne had been tending their graves regularly for years, and she understood, after my mother died in 1994, how healing cemetery visits could be. Then we would go out to dinner and talk and get-reacquainted telling family and teacher stories. Joanne had been an elementary school teacher all of her life, most of the time teaching second graders, and she had the energy and enthusiasm that I've seen with others who spend their daytime hours with young children. Here she is (circa 1980) with her mother, Marie, my mother's oldest sister.

Joanne blossomed after her marriage. She cut and dyed her hair--previously worn in a graying bun--and started calling herself JoJo. She and Jack built a life together in an apartment on North Kedzie Avenue, traveled often, and developed a close relationship as a couple with Jack's daughters, Sandee and Kim. Every year when I visited my sister and brother-in-law in Chicago, we would visit them. We'd talk, eat pizza, and sometimes Joanne would play the piano and sing. Here's a picture from the early years of their marriage.

The sadness and suddenness of Joanne's passing was all the more jarring because she was the last of a generation in my mother's family. She was already a grown-up--age 14--when I celebrated my 3rd birthday in 1950. She's sitting across from the cake next to her friend, Babs in this photo:

To me, Joanne always seemed part of a bridge generation--almost like a much younger aunt. I was still in elementary school when she graduated from college--the first in our family to go. Her choice of career was a surprise to no one, as I remember when I was a young child, she would play school in her bedroom when we visited, and her young cousins were willingly corralled as students. Later, when she had been teaching for a few years in Arlington Hts., she was courted by the principal. Everyone expected them to marry but in the end she backed out, choosing to live with her mom and adopted dad, Jack Beck. Her birth father, Bill Hauschild, had died early in her life, and Jack was Marie's loving husband, the one who entered later in her life and became her real dad.

Joanne's death came just weeks before the world shut down due to Covid, but already it had become unsafe to fly. Add jury duty for me and an incipient snowstorm in Chicago in the days after her death. I was unable to attend her modest funeral, though I plan at some point in the future to do some tending to her grave and our respective parents' graves which I think would please her very much. 

Joanne's death took a toll on Jack, whose health declined and then exposure to Covid led to his death earlier this year. At that point he had lost two wives to cancer, a sadness that must have been so difficult to bear. I had written him a letter, sent just a week before he died, telling me how much I appreciated his being in our family, though I'm not sure he either received or read it. I hope so. May his memory and Joanne's be a blessing for those of us who loved them both.

Ode to The Western, then and now

I’ve often wondered if my childhood fascination with Westerns led to my eventual move to Colorado. Some unconscious imprinting of Western landscapes made me far more inclined to look west rather than east for a possible new home. The answer, which is no doubt more complex, will probably stay lodged in my unconscious. Last week, when I went to see the newest exhibit at The Denver Art Museum (DAM)—"The Western: An Epic in Art and Film"—I didn’t discover an answer, but came up with more questions. The central ones: What cultural and aesthetic ideas shaped my generation as we grow up, and how do movies and TV shows reflect the times during which they’re made?

I enjoyed the exhibit, especially as my friend and film buff, Gayle Novak, joined me for it. She’s an excellent film historian, starting in childhood, having grown up with a movie theater just down the street and no in-home TV to distract her. My experience was opposite—no nearby theater, but a TV set in the living room from my earliest days. Gene Autry, the singing cowboy, got a TV show in the 50s and I was a devoted fan. Writing this, I detoured to youtube, and sure enough, this clip turned up, accompanied by photos from another favorite, Little House on the Prairie.

Along with the Gene Autry Show, I loved The Roy Rogers and Dale Evans Show, The Lone Ranger, Broken Arrow, The Range Rider, Wagon Train and others, none of which are in this exhibit, though I remembered them all as I went through the museum.  All together, they offered me a kind of time travel, set a half century or more earlier, in a very different environment from the one I had in Hammond, Indiana. Of course they reflected 1950s-era mythologies of the Old West and family life. They must have shaped my early understanding of gender roles—with men doing the exciting stuff and women left back at the ranch. Unconsciously I absorbed the idea that the population was essentially white. There were “noble Indians” and “dangerous Indians” in those early days, a mythology masking the taking of the West from Native Americans.

As Gayle and I walked through the exhibit, it was the video clips the drew most of our attention, especially the films of the late John Ford.  In childhood, while I sat in front of the TV, Gayle was in the movie theater, watching his films. There’s a retrospective of Ford’s films in the DAM exhibit. A well-deserved one, both for the magnitude of his work (5 decades, 100 films), but also for his artistry. As the museum program notes, “Ford was inspired by the landscapes, characters, and dramas of nineteenth-century painters. In part by studying classic western American artists, Ford developed an artistry that elevated him to what he termed a “picture maker.’”

At the beginning of the exhibit, 19th century paintings were the focus, and Gayle was quite familiar with that genre as well. Our attention was drawn to George Catlin’s 1832 painting of Four Bears, Second Chief in Full Dress. Catlin claimed to be the first white man to paint Plains Indians. We might guess there are fewer cultural stereotypes in his work than what we see in the work of later generations, yet he was also viewing “the other”, the “exotic” ceremonial dress of Native chiefs. He painted hundreds of portraits, many of which are now in The Smithsonian.

C.M. Russell, a prolific late 19th century painter, is also represented in the exhibit, and a museum guard, noting Gayle's knowledgeable comments to me, advised us not to miss the colors in his painting in the next room. Yes, wonderful color, and it clearly shows the hazards of travel in the Old West, though I found myself idly wondering how they got so many people in one stagecoach. 

As we continued through the exhibit, I remembered how TV eventually gave me access to Ford's work after networks got the rights to broadcast classic films in the mid-50s. The titles blur in memory; no doubt I followed along with the stories, only dimly aware of who the director was and the cinematic genius he revealed in his work. Yet, last week as I watched the clips selected for this exhibit, I saw what a breath-taking scene composer Ford was. In particular, scenes from The Searchers (1956), considered one of the greatest Westerns of all time, and The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962) show this artistry.  I wondered if back in the day, my unconscious also picked up a sense of good picture composition as I watched them. If so, thank you, John Ford. The beginning of this clip from The Searchers illustrates his genius with composition.

Two great morality Westerns with lonely, courageous heroes— High Noon (1952) and Shane (1953), are given their due. This theater marquis for High Noon reminded me of those pre-digital days when we watched everything on a big screen, in relative silence, with hundreds of others.  Gayle and I watched video clips, along with one of Giant (1956), which featured the iconic James Dean just before his tragic early death. This film, based on a novel by Edna Ferber, deals with racism and the politics of wealth and oil in Texas. A foreshadowing of the 1960s, waiting in the wing. 

Ford’s last Western, Cheyenne Autumn (1964) was his elegy to Native Americans. It was a Hollywood version of an actual event, The Northern Cheyenne Exodus of 1878-9, in which the Cheyenne, forcibly removed south, attempted to return. I missed this one at the theater, 1964 being the year I graduated from high school and got ready to enter college. During the 60s, the Western genre turned to new interpretations of history. I saw Little Big Man (1970) with college friends and applauded the elevation of Native Americans and critique of the U.S. Cavalry. The Vietnam war was raging, and anti-military critiques found a very receptive audience. 

That same year, 1970, a book gave me my first understanding of the massive injustice done to Native Americans by White settlers—Dee Brown’s Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. By the late 60s, the American Indian Movement was organized to redress these continuing injustices. One of the founders was the late Russell Means, and you can see Andy Warhol’s famed politicized portrait of him in this exhibit. The magazine covers below ("Return of the Red Man" and "A Choice of Heroes") acknowledge the cultural changes going on with revisionist history and a reframing of heroism. 

The counterculture Easy Rider (1969) used the same landscapes as earlier Westerns, but replacing cowboys with drug-dealing bikers traveling cross country, finding a mix of tradition, communes, free love and lots of violence. I remember seeing this film then, as a young woman who had never traveled cross country, indulged in free love or tried marijuana, probably with the same sense of wonder and puzzlement I felt as a Midwestern child looking at The Old West. The Easy Rider bike, shown in front of a video clip, is enshrined in the exhibit.

The exhibit continues with a tribute to the genre of “spaghetti Westerns”, typified by The Good, The Bad and the Ugly (1966), directed by Sergio Leone and starring Clint Eastwood as “Blondie”, the bounty hunter. Leone was noted for his use of violence, tension and stylistic gun fights, and though the genre was disparaged then, this film has stood the test of time it seems. Somewhat stunned by the scale, Gayle and I stood in a circular space, surrounded by large video screens, each with a tough gunslinger, positioned in a Mexican standoff, ready to draw and shoot. Seeing Eastwood, I remembered his award-winning Unforgiven (1992), which he directed and dedicated to Leone. It was probably the first “anti-Western” I saw, one which challenged all of the old myths of heroism and justice, replacing them with a scathing critique of violence and human cruelty.

The exhibit ends with a display of various sometimes-puzzling postmodern works, including a tipi furnished with Victorian furniture and featuring a satirical western skit on video. Perhaps some examples from the sci fi and fantasy genre (Star Wars and The Hunger Games, for example) would have been a better way to finish.  Those films are places where young people today find cultural representations of all the old themes—justice, morality, freedom and their evil dystopian twins—human folly and cruelty--in the context of the early 21st century.

A Memoir of Sounds

I wish to hear the silence of the night,  for the silence is something positive and to be heard.  --Thoreau

I sometimes wish I had an album of sounds, from childhood through the present, in all of the places I've lived. Turn the page, hear a different one. Sounds are harder to recall than visual images, yet hear them again, and a memory jumps into place. Favored ones, pleasant ones, tend to float to the top of the memory pile; my survival instincts push others, such as the sound of quarreling relatives, to the bottom. Others, mercifully,  get filtered out as noise: screeching tires, yapping small dogs, yesterday's buzzing mosquito. This blog entry is a journey through sound memories, enhanced through technology. Of course, music is a soundtrack for life as well, but that’s a subject for a another day.

The first sound I heard--and you heard--when we were tucked into our mothers' wombs was a heartbeat. You can hear it again today, courtesy of this Youtube recording of womb sounds. Listen for a few minutes, as I did today. Designed to calm sleepless babies, they’re still comforting for adults, aren't they? Looking for something more complex, we have all sorts of other sound comforts in adult life, also thanks to YouTube. I loved this one: what’s more conducive to sleep than soft rain falling on leaves?

One of my aural memories of Hammond, Indiana, the town where I lived from age 6 to 15, was a train horn. Hammond had a lot of train tracks, and legend had it that more women gave birth unexpectedly at train crossings than in any other town. I remember the train sounds at night, a kind of sweet melancholy. Here's one 41-second train horn recording I found--just like what I remember and hear sometimes in Denver now too.  Also recalled from childhood summers: the “hiss of summer lawns”—to borrow the title of a Joni Mitchell album, the whirr of a push lawn mower, the barely audible broadcast of a baseball game on a transistor radio, passing trucks on a nearby highway, the bells of ice cream vendors riding bicycles.

After moving to Chicago with my family as a teen, graduating from high school and moving on to college, I often heard the city’s iconic elevated trains. No doubt I also heard them during my first 5 years of childhood in that city. Perhaps I heard the sounds of “the el” in the womb, along with Mom’s heartbeat. Chicago trains helped me realize how the brain filters out repetitive sounds, noticing them only in the absence. Low-cost apartments, where I usually lived, were often near the el, so my brain did a lot of filtering. Here's one of the el in the snow. Another Chicago sound memory: waves lapping on the shore of Lake Michigan. Mundelein College, where I spent 4 years, was located right next to the lake on the city’s North Side.

I missed the trains and the lake when I moved to Denver in 1976. Sometimes at night I could hear freight trains passing, but for the most part, I don’t connect Denver with trains. Lake Michigan sounds were replaced by those of rushing mountain rivers, as moving to Colorado introduced me to my first real non-urban soundscapes. Encountering mountain wilderness on camping trips taught me to listen to natural music: the wind blowing through Ponderosa pine, the distant howl of coyotes, the crunch of heavy boots on gravel.

The sounds of urban Japan entered my life in 1990 when I moved to Machida City in the greater Tokyo area. During those first months, on some mornings, I thought I heard the strangest sing-song phrase coming from trucks passing by my apartment building; could it be a Buddhist chant? Eventually, I learned that those trucks were selling laundry poles! Listen to the last few seconds of this 30-second link to hear the laundry pole “chant”.  A pleasant sound, unlike the ubiquitous loudspeakers on campaign trucks during election season. Those were only a periodic annoyance, fortunately.  Years later, living in my own place a train stop away, I awoke to frogs nearby, exactly where I was never sure, and the muffled sounds of the Odakyu Line train. Japanese trains do not run at night, a boon for sleepers, if not party-goers. Miss the last train, and you stay out until they start again at 5 a.m. in the morning--unless you splurge on a taxi. Nights were relatively quiet except for occasional bozozoku, young men who were or fancied themselves members of motorcycle gangs, racing down the Tsurukawa Kaido a block away. Their unmuffled motors were almost impossible to filter out. As summer progressed, the cicada chorus grew louder, and its vibrations made the air hum. Last year I was Skyping with my Japanese sister, Junko, and I could the cicadas in the background as we talked. I was surprised at how homesick for Japan they made me feel. Here's the sound of autumn crickets.

Now I live in Denver most of the year, and my brain continues to filter sound, pleasant from unpleasant. Every time I hear a loud leaf blower—which always seems to accomplish very little actually—I miss the soft swish of the bamboo brooms that staffers used on the Tamagawa campus to rake fallen leaves. My apartment is on busy Grant Street, near downtown and the State Capitol building, and if I had no sight, I could clearly tell the time of day from the first pre-rush-hour traffic sounds to the constant stream at its height. Annoying sounds include shouts of inebriated nightclub-goers when the bars close at 2 a.m., but not long after that, a silence ensues, punctuated by an occasional siren.

In Florissant, where I spend a good bit of the summer, sounds have a different rhythm and I take notice of different things. Windows open, I hear the buzz/chirp of the hummingbirds at my two feeders from early morning to sunset. Nearly all were on their way south by Labor Day, and when I came back in September from a short trip to Chicago, the silence of their absence was deafening.  Occasional sounds from the summer that has just passed: tires crunching the gravel of Ranger Station Road, a distant generator, Linda’s dogs, Hop and Belle, barking at something. Very occasional sounds: target practice gun shots (a former neighbor’s grandsons visiting the now-mostly-vacant family cabin), a passing herd of cows, a couple of braying burros announcing the arrival of the herd for a day or two of grazing. Owned by a somewhat neglectful neighboring rancher, they used to visit the land periodically but haven’t been around all summer this year. We've had good rainfall this year, so the grass is probably tasty enough in their home pastures.

By sundown, the land descends into true silence. Sometimes I hear the sound of rain or distant coyotes. Otherwise, my ears seem to ring, seeking some auditory vibration. I have electricity and access to technology; I could watch a DVD or listen to music, but I generally don’t. I enjoy the quiet—for awhile. Nights are generally much cooler than the days here, and by the middle of the night the house begins to make sounds. I often wake with a start when I hear a small noise: Was that a mouse or just a creak? A nighttime visitor (that elusive badger who’s been digging holes outside)? My hearing is acute, so acute, too acute. Like Thoreau, I want the positive sounds of silence, yet too often I just wish the sounds of morning would arrive and calm my beating heart.

*Photo from npr.org

The 4th of July: Reframing an afflicted holiday

Like Dylan Thomas' Christmas memories, wrapped in a snowball rolling to the sea, my memories of childhood 4th of July events are a blaze of sparklers, illuminating images of backyard barbecues, barefoot summers, relatives enjoying a day off with a beer and home-cooked food, evenings with fireflies and the echo of far-off fireworks, TV reruns of Yankee Doodle Dandy. The 1950s in Hammond, Indiana.

After that, the magic ended. In later years, the day brought sadness or indifference, and now, sitting here on July 4, 2016, I wonder what to make of Independence Day. Skimming through my Facebook feed, I picture this holiday as a stressed Statue of Liberty trying to move through an excited crowd. People are grabbing at her sleeves, insisting that the day reminds us how much the promise of America has failed, or how it never was that hot to begin with, or how we've failed to honor those who have served, or how we should be proud of the freedoms we have. Polarizing thoughts in a very polarized country. Cautionary notes too: this is, after all, a noisy and stressful day for animals. Some friends, mercifully, simply wish me a happy 4th of July. I hope to join some of them later in a non-ideological viewing of fireworks.

By the mid-1960s, as I entered early adulthood, my image of this celebration of national independence had darkened. The Vietnam War, which I opposed, made any patriotic display distasteful to me. Living in various apartments in Chicago, I had no backyard or interest in barbecue or sparklers. Less time for TV or family visits as well.

By age 30, the day acquired a painful meaning: my father died suddenly on July 4, 1977. En route from Denver to Chicago that day, I didn't know the news until later, watching fireworks for the last time as a young woman with two living parents. That day was also my half-sister's birthday, the day she received such a terrible present. Can any anniversary of a painful event ever escape such an association?

Years passed, I acquired animal companions along the way, and the celebrations of the 4th were a source of anxiety for them. It was usually hot, and I still had no interest in patriotic displays. Some years I enjoyed having a day off work, I'll admit, though not always. It was summer vacation for those working or studying in the school system.

In 1990, I escaped the 4th of July by moving to Japan. Early July is still part of the school year in Japanese universities, and the 4th came and went as I prepared for final exams and the following summer vacation. Japan has only one national holiday in July, "umi no hi" (Sea Day), a day set aside for enjoying vacation time, preferably at a beach. I was usually on my way back to the US by the time it arrived.

Since returning in 2010, I've observed or not observed the holiday in various ways. One year I cooled off while watching rather impressive fireworks off Navy Pier in Chicago. Last year I was at my cabin, venturing out for a couple of hours for Guffey Heritage Day. I enjoyed the library's book and bake sale, but had to pass on the chicken wing cook-off. Guffey used to have a "chicken fly" contest, in which children could see whose chicken could fly the farthest, an event the chickens never seemed to mind. (Only hot dogs were served in those days).... I digress.

If July 4th has to have a meaning, I vote for a national "Interdependence" day, one in which we try to heal the polarization and acknowledge all of the ways we are bound to each other and to the developing world. Acting locally, thinking globally--my favorite ideological phrase these days. We could fly the Earth flag, reminding ourselves where our true allegiance lies. (Image from NASA)

This morning I started the day with music. The GALA chorus convention is in downtown Denver, and thousands of singers with LBGT choruses all over the country have come to sing together. They have a live broadcast stream, which began today at 9 a.m. The Boston Gay Men's Chorus performed beautifully in a program which included a commissioned work celebrating peace and interconnectedness. More concerts will be broadcast daily through July 6, and you can access them free. Click here.

For the rest of the day, I'll let my mental image of the Statue of Liberty free herself from the crowd, letting herself and the beleaguered country she represents have a day off,  just to chill and look up at the sky.

Toys weRen't Us

One thing about entering early old age is the realization that your childhood was a very long time ago—well over half a century. Like most memories, it eventually fades into a series of moments, snapshots of times connected to salient emotions, usually happening in summer. I was a lucky kid, with many happy mental snapshots to muse over now. I grew up in the 50’s, in Hammond, Indiana, a satellite city of Chicago. My parents moved there when I was 5. They bought a small house with a front and back yard, and in an era of free-range parenting as the norm, I spent most of the summer outdoors. My sister, Joanie, was almost 6 years younger, so I remember hanging out mostly with other little girls my age who lived across the street from me.

When I heard that the History Colorado Center in Denver was holding a Toys of the 50s, 60s and 70s exhibit this year, I wasn’t sure it would be all that relevant. What I remember more than toys were activities. During my first 10 years of life, I jumped rope, rode my bike, roller skated, played hop scotch, splashed in an inflatable kids’ pool, spent hours searching for 4-leaf clover or watching grasshoppers on the fence, took our dog Ginger for walks, twirled my hula hoop, or poured sand in the sandbox. On hot summer days, my mom would turn the sprinkler on and Eileen and I would run through it. Here we are, with me trying to make a funny face that turned into a grimace, yet I was having just as much fun as my friend. When I was older I played badminton in Cheryl’s backyard across the street, regrettably the only sport I practiced.

I did have some toys, however. When I was very young, I had this baby doll. 

Other dolls came later, though I don’t remember being that obsessed with them, except during a paper-doll phase. For the most part, I enjoyed being a little tomboy.

Of course, you could say my hula hoop and jump rope were toys. Both of these icons are now in the National Toy Hall of Fame. In addition, I had Tinker Toys, jacks, pick-up sticks, marbles, and a yoyo, plus various games such as playing cards, Chinese checkers, Cootie, and Mr. Potatohead. So yes, I had reason to go to the History Colorado exhibit last month to see what childhood memories might be teased out. The exhibit is divided into decades. As I walked in, I re-entered the 50s and was entranced. For my readers who also grew up in the 50s, take a look at these images:

Cootie—still selling into the early 21st century(!)—is a roll and move tabletop game, where chance not skill rules. In 2003 it was added to the Toy Industry Association’s Century of Toys list—a list of the “100 most memorable and creative toys” of the 20th century.

Paper dolls were offered in McCall’s magazine each month, and many other cut-out books followed.

The hula hoop, a product of the late 50s, is definitely a crossover—from century to century, from child to adult. Wikipedia has a fascinating account of the postmodern revival of this toy with ancient roots. In this photo, I was more like the girl in the center, swiveling my hips inside just one hoop.

Special mention goes to this one: Mr. Potato Head. Special because it was the first toy marketed directly to children through TV ads; that was in 1952. Though the admen were rank amateurs compared to their counterparts today, it worked. Millions were sold (at 98 cents each) in the first year. I had one of the early versions, which required me to get a real potato from my mom. Later the kit came with a plastic body and parts conforming to toy safety regulations of the early 60s.

Were yesterday’s toys better or equal to the toys of today, produced in far more colors, with  far more sophisticated bells and whistles? It’s tempting to say yes. A friend who teaches pre-schoolers says classic toys were good for kids because they were simple; they only did one thing. We were required to manipulate them ourselves, using our imagination. That seems true enough, as the list of award-winners in the National Toy Hall of Fame confirm the value of many. Criteria for induction include icon status, longevity, discovery, and innovation.” Some of my favorites among the inductees: marbles, Monopoly, the Duncan yoyo, Tinker Toys, Etch a Sketch, jump rope, Mr. Potato Head, the jigsaw puzzle, Checkers, the cardboard box, and playing cards.

However, looking back, we can see that the 50s were not toy paradise—at least not for everyone. As the History Colorado exhibit points out, there was no concept of “culturally sensitive” toys. Cowboy and Indian games were prevalent—with all of the stereotypes reflected in the Westerns shown on TV. (I confess I loved many of those shows, especially the singing cowboy, Gene Autry, as well as Roy Rogers and Dale Evans.) 

I like to think my stereotypes of Native Americans were at least positive ones. After a Wisconsin family vacation when I was 10, I became fascinated with moccasins, deerskin dresses, and the long black hair on an Indian doll my parents bought me. 

Only one black-skinned doll was marketed during this era. In 1949 Florida businesswoman Sara Lee Creech wanted to make a doll that promoted positive images of African-Americans among children of all races. She had watched a group of black kids playing with white dolls and thought they should have other choices. Her efforts drew praise from many, including author Zora Neale Hurston and former First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt.  Unfortunately, the doll did not sell well and there was also a problem with the materials used. But for a time (until 1953), parents could order one from the Sears catalog for $6.95. In those days, no one talked about gender stereotyping either. Fortunately, my doll stage pre-dated hyper-feminine Barbie, and my literary heroine—the intrepid sleuth Nancy Drew—never dressed as a princess. 

Today parents have thousands of choices in Toys R Us or other retail shops—with higher price tags, of course—but also with far more sophisticated materials and technology. Not to mention electronics. (Anyone remember the first electronic toy? Yes, “Simon” in 1978!) Are kids today engaged in more complex ways than we were? Do they have more fun? Do they feel more frustrated because their parents  can’t afford the toys they see advertised? Do they tend to be more or less active? Are they totally spoiled because there are fewer kids and more doting relatives? Do they see accurate representations of gender or ethnicity in the toys they receive? I’d love to hear your opinions, no matter how partial.

I make no judgment about the toys of the 21st century, as I haven’t shopped for toys in a long while. Such a profusion of choices would probably make me dizzy if I entered a store. For assessments of value, we might just have to wait for the test of time—the Toy of Fame inductees of the future.

If you’re in or near Denver, try to catch the Toys of the 50s, 60s and 70s exhibit before it closes October 4.