Our Toys                                                                                                      February 6, 2020    

 

“Tank! Tank! Tank!” was the cry as the white tank slowly, continuously, made it way up the steep hill, unaware of what was waiting for it as it reached the top. 

 

Only seconds before an opposing tank, red, successfully accomplished the same summit. 

 

With no shots fired, the battle began. A direct attack ran the two tanks together. Both stopped all forward motion, but they kept turning, the tracks trying to grasp anything to gain an advantage. Slowly they slid sideways, still pushing forward. Little by little White gained the advantage, pushing Red sideways. Red turns, beginning a retreat down the hill.

 

“Yeah,” I cry, proclaiming victory over Jerry’s tank.

 

“Let’s try it again.” He pleads, hoping for a different outcome. 

 

They didn’t look much like tanks. They looked more like empty thread spools from Mom’s sewing. In our imaginative eyes, they were tanks. We had made them, colored them with crayons to be red, white and blue. We wound them tight, preparing for another battle of the hill of books.

 

The tanks were one of my favorites homemade toys. All I needed was an empty wooden spool, a rubber band, a broken crayon, and a couple of match stems or toothpicks. With a kitchen knife, I cut notches around the fluted edges of the spools.

I tried to figure the direction they would go and how I could cut the tread to give better traction and climbing power.Then I cut a small grove on one end, just about half the width of a match stem, which was what I put in it. It had to be deep enough to prevent the stem from coming out and spinning uselessly. I fed a rubber band through the hole in the spool and placed the stem on one end and a crayon and longer stem on the other. Next would be the painting and patterns to identify my tank.Then I would wind the rubber band tight, place the tank on the floor and let it begin its journey or battle.

 

Books became hills to battle over. Small wooden blocks were bulldozed around. Markers of thread would measure off for a race. Or the tank could be stood on end to let the long stick become a gun, rotating around shooting down any enemy in sight. Ideas flowed and new challenges were offered. Hours of fun were the result.

 

Maybe Mom showed us how to make our first tank. There were always multicolored wooden spools around because of her sewing. She was the seamstress of matching shirts for Jerry and me. She was the tailor of pants cut from paper patterns held to the thicker cloth by kitchen knives.. She was the goto woman when tears and holes required a patch of near matching cloth. Her sewing area often had the smell of fresh material ready to be transformed into a work of art to be praised by other women. Close at hand was the cushion for pens with their various colored balls at the top. A needle packet contained various styles and sizes for different tasks. Of course, a tin contained a lifetime collection of buttons. Central to it all was the sewing machine.  

 

The first sewing machine I remember was a treadle model. On top of a sturdy cast iron frame, the black Singer with silver lettering was connected by a belt to a large wheel at the bottom. The wheel was run by a platform big enough for both feet to fit. Working this treadle caused the needle to go up and down with a click-clack. There were different levers Mom would flick up or down putting stitches in just the right place. It was fun to watch her as she intently guided the material through the machine.

 

“Do you want to sew something?” she asked. 

 

“Yes,” I responded, more interested in how this thing worked than what it produced.

 

“Sit here and take this scrap. Put it right there where the jagged shiny metal moves forward and backward.” She instructed.

 

Twisting my tongue, as if that might help, I carefully positioned the potential masterpiece into place. 

 

“Now, push that lever down.” 

 

I obeyed and heard it click as it dropped the pressure foot onto the waiting material holding it in place..

 

“Now, with your foot, begin to rock the treadle back and forth.”

 

 I could barely reach it. It was difficult to start. As I concentrated on picking up some speed with my foot, I forgot to feed the cloth forward. The needle jumped up and down, faster and faster as I pumped. 

 

“Wait! Wait!” Mom cried.

 

I stopped pedaling but the machine was slowly coasting to a stop. 

 

I looked at the end of the needle and saw a massive bunch of knots.I pulled one end of them and made the knots much more compact. 

 

“You can’t untie them. You have to cut the knot off.” 

 

I pulled the thread out a little and cut it next to the needle. The thread disappeared from the needle’s eye somewhere up and behind the machine.

 

“We’ll have to thread it again,” Mom lamented as she lapped the thread around a little funny object sticking out from the front. Then, wetting the end of the thread between her lips, she bent down to closely guide it through the tiny hole. The knot was disposed into the trash can.  We were ready to try again.

 

The second try resulted in some stitches, a little uneven and anything but straight. It also resulted in a decision that hammers and nails are a lot easier to work with than a machine that does whatever it wants to do.

 

I did get to play with the machine when Mom was not using the Singer. I’d sit on the floor and with my hand, instead of foot, move the pedal to see how fast I could get it to go. Without any thread in it, of course.

 

Most of Jerry's and my toys were made by parents, kin, or friends. 

 

Other toys come to mind. My friend’s dad made little propellers on a long stick. We would spin the stick between our hands and the prop would fly high in the air. We tried to see whose could go the highest, or stay up the longest, or, aiming them forward a little, could go the farthest. We soon learned to do battle with them, never hurting each other. (You can buy them now at Ace Hardware.)

 

Pop was creative in helping us with toys. He had a few tools and a love for making something out of wood. 

 

He made us each a little boat with a paddle wheel at the back, held in place by rubber bands. We’d wind them up and watch the water fly as the wheel would spin, thrusting the boat forward.

 

He made slingshots and warned us not to kill our robins and singing cardinals. 

 

The rubber band guns were fun. They wouldn’t shoot straight and could never hurt anyone.

 

The little whip was a short stick with a heavy cord at the end. With a flick of the wrist, it would make a loud snap and I would think, “Look out, Lash La Rue!” (Google him if you don’t know.)

 

Pop took an old pair of roller skates and disassembled them. He fastened the front wheels to a board and rear ones to the end. Above the board he put a stick with a little handle. I had a scooter. Actually, it was very much like the early skateboards, with a handle thrown in to make it easier to control. We didn’t have many sidewalks at Peach Orchard, just in front of the couple of stores but I would ride my scooter for hours on those little short distances. I just wish Pop had patented those skateboards. We’d be rich now.

 

Oh, I would look at the toys in the Sears and Roebuck Catalog as I sat in the outhouse. I knew I wouldn’t own any of them. I wasn’t disappointed because I knew I wasn’t missing out at all. Store bought toys were simple. A bag of marbles for a nickel at the Dime Store. A top for ten cents. Some yo-yos cost 15 cents but the sleepers had not been invented yet. 

 

Washers, nails, sticks, leaves, and almost anything else could become a toy and provide hours of fun. They also taught us physics, dynamics, engineering and the joy of creation. More than that, we learned the joys of working and playing with adults.

 

Uncle Bill helped us make Pop Guns which were a lot of fun. He would take a piece of sumac, which is hollow like some bamboo, and cut it off to form a tube. (We had to be careful in choosing the sumac for some of it was poisonous and would cause a deep red rash to form on our hands and arms and would itch like crazy.)

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A dowel or a stick became the plunger. A piece of cork was attached to the end of the dowel and a string would run through the tube to another cork on the end. When we pulled the stick back the end cork would plug the end.Then, with a quick fast push, the pressure would blow the stuck cork off with a loud “Pop.”  It was fun and we would shoot cowboys and Indians, or cops and robbers, or elephants and bears. 

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Years later, we stopped in a Cracker Barrel Restaurant. Before entering we sat in one of their wooden rockers and enjoyed relaxing in the shade on a warm summer day. Inside we played their triangle game with golf tees ending with one tee at the top point. After enjoying the chicken fried steak smothered in white gravy, with buttered biscuits soaked in honey, we went into their lobby, or, what should be called, their major novelty showroom. There to my surprise was a pop gun. It was much improved over Uncle Bill’s model but it functioned the same way and made the same “Pop.” I showed it to everyone around. I made it “pop” again and again, as the cashier in the white shirt and tie watched me from behind the counter. I told everyone who would listen, not many, really, how we had made our own and what fun they were. Finally, June took it from my hand, hung it back on the rack and dragged me, protesting, out the door and into the car. (Some people don’t appreciate the better things in life.)

 

Uncle Bill also had a modified version of the Pop Gun. Instead of corks, you chewed up a piece of paper, stuck it in one end, then from the other end, insert another wet wad of paper. Line your stick up carefully then hit it as hard as you can. It made a pop sound and the paper at the end flew out. 

 

With patience, Uncle Bill helped us understand how to aim that gun and hit a target. After many trials and errors we finally were able to get off some good and accurate shots, hitting each other.

 

The big toy on the farm was the tractor. As a pre-teenager, I already wanted to play with that big machine. Sometimes as we would go from the shed to the back 40 (acres), he’d let me sit on his lap and steer the reddish orange Allis Chalmers. As I grew he, with patience, taught me to shift it using the stiff clutch with my left foot. He let me drive it down the narrow path between fields of tiny cotton poking through the dark earth.

 

One day he surprised me one day. “Bob, take the tractor to the back cotton field. I’ll meet you there.” 

 

I felt like I had become a man overnight. Uncle Bill’s patience and my learning had paid off. I was driving the tractor by myself. 

 

The cotton in the straight rows had sprung up to a height of about two inches. So had the weeds. 

 

The tractor had the cultivators attached to it. These four metal plows would break up the dirt, uprooting some of the weeds and burying others. 

 

I felt great as I drove between the fields of cotton. I was singing to myself as I went through the different gears. I enjoyed the smell of the tractor’s exhaust mixed with the spring air. I arrived ahead of Uncle Bill so I turned the tractor around to face back toward the barn. That served no purpose except to give me another minute sitting on that metal seat and turning the large steering wheel.

 

Soon Uncle Bill arrived in his black Chevy pickup. He got out, looking at me and the tractor. I thought, “He’s checking it out for any damage.” 

 

“Bob, you can start on these first four rows. You know how to drop the cultivators. Be sure to start moving first. Keep your eyes on the far end so you will go straight. Pick out a post and  continue looking at it, aiming the tractor, so you’ll stay in the center of the rows. At the end, lift the cultivators before you stop. Then swing around and do the next four.”

 

The instructions seemed clear and simple. 

 

Trying to contain my excitement, I slid the throttle forward into a notch, chose my gear, and released the clutch. With the forward motion, I dropped the cultivators, chose my post and aimed for that target. I was doing four rows at a time. My heart was beating rapidly. My hands had a death grip on that black circle. A little sweat ran from under my baseball cap. I squinted in the sunlight to have a clearer vision of the bullseye.

 

At the end of the row, I pulled the lever lifting the plows, hit my left wheel brake and swung old Allis around. I looked back to see how well I had done. It was beautiful. The furrows were straight. I had remained in the center. Four rows had cotton but no weeds. I felt proud. I felt my shoulders relax a little.

 

Looking back toward Uncle Bill in his pith helmet and overalls standing next to his pickup, I released the brake, eased out the clutch, dropped the plows, started down the next four rows. I was still congratulating myself on the great job I was doing.

 

Now I was headed straight to another success. I knew I was doing a repeat of the first trip. I knew I’d be okay with this job. But I had to check my work. I couldn’t help but look back and see what a great job I was doing. 

 

Without pausing, I looked behind me. Yes! The line was straight. Yes! I’m doing good. As I looked, suddenly four rows of cotton disappeared! I jerked my head forward. I yanked the wheel to the left to get back where I should be. The rest of the way, I didn’t take my eyes off the pickup and Uncle Bill. 

 

I could clearly see him standing dead center of where I would end up in just a minute and a half.I knew he had seen me drift off to the right. I knew he had watched me whip the tractor back to where it should be. I dreaded what he would say. I knew it would be, “Get off!” and I would climb down never to go again. I started thinking how I could say I'm sorry. I would offer to go back and hand plant the destroyed sprouts.

 

When I got there, Uncle Bill, with his usual patience, said, “Good job, Bob. Get the next four now.” He turned his back and started walking toward the pickup. He never criticized my failure. He never reprimanded me for failing to follow his careful instructions. He never asked me to go back and plant. He never mentioned it. He just let me go on plowing, a lesson forcefully learned. (“Thanks, Uncle Bill. I never told you that back then and I wish I could tell you now.”)

 

1 Corinthians 13:4  Love is patient, love is kind.