Childhood on a farm is as magical as it gets. The world is open for experimentation and exploration. In the mid 1900’s, there were few boogiemen that ventured into the vineyards of the Central Valley of California. Sure, there were roaming hippies high on drugs and love, but they just sauntered on by on their walk towards the coast range and the Pacific beyond. Nope, it was an idyllic place for a blonde little tomboy to grow up.
Although we did have animals, we could never have had enough for me. The ones we had really didn’t count as REAL farm animals. No cow. No pig. Not even a rooster if Dad could help it. Just chickens, rabbits, pigeons, and 4-H lambs. On a farm, it’s not wise to name the animals. Whether furry or feathered, they all met their end at the dinner table.
Of course, there were the dogs. Through the years, many many farm dogs. There were also the visiting Guide Dog for the Blind puppies that came to stay for a spell while we helped them grow and learn. Although I raised five puppies to maturity, all five were rejected due to physical birth defects. Random problems that broke my heart each time. Crooked ears that never straightened. Hyperactivity beyond the normal. Hip dysplasia. A pronounced limp that never went away. Just a few of the problems that came with little puppies delivered in the amazing Guide Dog for the Blind van.
An amazing imagination was necessary because toys weren’t plentiful. It wasn’t smart to be bored because plenty of chores could be found to amuse you. Living on a farm, there was always dusting and ironing, if nothing else could be found. Our farm was a 45 minute drive from town, so there were no matinee movies for us. Just long sunny days outside.
An old rusty bike from the 1950’s always had a flat which always needed fixing. Goat Head stickers were tough on tires, even those with thick tubes. Grammie and Grandpa lived down the road to the north. A best friend lived down the road to the South. Two feet never failed me in either direction. That was my world.
Name brand toys were just starting to become popular. I had my cousin’s hand-me-down doll, Lula Belle. A Madame Alexander baby doll, she was about to be discarded when I snatched her up for my own. She sits in my guest room today, having earned some down time in her old age. She still hasn’t gotten over the fact that Barbie and Ken came along.
As a young girl, my nose was always in my Dad’s shop. Girls weren’t allowed. Ever. Except for me, his favorite. A dark, mysterious, rusty place of dust, rust, grease, and oil. Dangerous beyond anything in today’s world, open bags of chemicals and heavy equipment were everywhere. Spray rigs for the ranch were waiting for repair, dripping with toxic goo. Big disc blades that could cut off a toe, or worse were propped by the 12″ galvanized sliding doors. A huge hoist could lift up a butchered cow’s carcass like a feather. Mysterious and wonderful things were in the shop, and I loved sneaking around there to check out the equipment. Boys had all the fun. Sadly, we were a family of five girls.
Presents of any kind didn’t happen too often and certainly not without a reason. At Christmas, there was one gift for each girl and occasional gifts from relatives, if they remembered. My Auntie TJ never forgot. Her gifts were always the ones I waited for. Special and just right, she knew us so well.
On my tenth Christmas, Santa brought one gift so special it left me speechless. My first box of Legos. Primary colors. Little square and rectangular blocks. No specialty pieces. Just a box to blocks with which to build things. I was in heaven, slowly adding to my set from year to year.
Fast forward to Winter 2020 in Walmart. A down-in-the-dumps kind of day, I was purchasing some toys for the Children’s Hospital just west of here. It was then I accidentally found myself in the LEGO aisle. No longer just squares and rectangles, there were boxes of every type of LEGO known to the world. It was then I realized I never stopped loving them.
Looking from side to side for onlookers, I found the perfect set and put it in my basket camouflaged by the toys for the hospital. THIS set was mine. Christmas is a great time to let the inner child run the show.
The box sat for a year, just collecting dust. With so many adult things to do, every time I looked at it, I felt silly and childish. Why did this 65 year old woman purchase such a toy? Utterly ridiculous! Shameful! Here’s the deal. I didn’t return it. 😁
During the winter Olympics a few weeks ago, I remembered the box and took it out. Well, the genie is out of the bottle. LEGOs are still as fun as they every were. Gone are the rectangular and square pieces in red, blue, and yellow. There are inventive and wonderful pieces that make all sorts of interesting projects. Mine happened to be an RV with moving parts and adorable tires.
Now, LEGOs are not for those gifted with true talents for carving wood or painting pictures. Not for those that can sew up a dress out of nothing or create a handmade dollhouse from scratch. They are for those of us that are challenged by following simple directions, while hoping that we use all the pieces in the right place. We, too, need a little creation to sit on the shelf.
Next Christmas, Santa will bring me that functioning LEGO typewriter. Age — 18+. “Perfect for that special writer. 2,079 pieces.”
Have yourself some fun today, whatever life brings you. It’s never to late to play. Isn’t retirement grand?
More tomorrow.