Siskiyou Writers’ Club: THE TOY BOX

THE TOY BOX

By Sandy Harmon Johnson

In our garage, under the workbench, is a 21-inch x 14-inch wooden square box with a lid. The box is brown and slightly weathered with a few streaks of white paint along one side and a few spots dabbled on the lid.  On top of the lid is a nursery decal of a black and white donkey standing in the grass carrying packs of flowers. My dad built that box for me 75 years ago – my toy box!

When I was five years old, the toy box began its journey in my upstairs bedroom on Bridge Street in Grants Pass. I don’t remember how it got there, but at the top of the stairs against the wall sat my toy box. You’d open the lid, and have to prop it against the wall so it wouldn’t fall closed and hit your head. Inside the box were my treasures – dolls and books. There were dolls my grandmother had given me – a baby doll wrapped in a blue blanket, a cloth doll stuffed with sawdust and no clothing, and a rubber black baby doll. The Bobbsey Twins, Heidi Grows Up, The Big Big Story Book of Heidi, Hans Brinker, and Black Beauty, as well as the large, worn Lots of Stories, were my books, all published around 1938. 

When I entered high school and moved across town, the box followed me. I was out of town when my parents moved, and all I can remember is my Polly Crockett hat, which I got in Disneyland, didn’t move to my new home. I guess my mother went through my things and decided what to keep and what to discard. At least my toy box was spared.

I didn’t give much thought to the toy box; after all, I was 18. In fact, I never glanced at the box. It just sat where it was placed, collecting memories. When I moved from Grants Pass to Sparks, NV, the box stayed in Grants Pass until my husband and I rented a home and were expecting our first child. I don’t remember using the toy box for her toys, though, just a small round plastic laundry basket.

The box was loaded on a U-Haul truck when our daughter was two, and we moved across the country to Iowa. The box then became a fixture in our daughter’s bedroom. By that time, my dolls were in disarray, and I tossed them away, sadly, to make room for her toys. Maybe I should have put the dolls in plastic bags, but I didn’t think about it, and maybe that wouldn’t have helped to preserve them. They should have been stored in my cedar chest.

Her and her brother’s toys filled my toy box. A small hard plastic dolly with green hair and no clothes, Romper Room puzzle clock, View Master with slides of Sesame Street, Avon black penguin soap holder to float in the bathtub, Playschool cloth bag of 40 alphabet wooden blocks that I think we bought with S&H Green stamps, and the Smiley plastic green skillet, yellow pot and red pan. There were lots of toys with small parts. When the neighborhood kids came to play, the toys would fly out of the box and lay on the floor after the kids went home. 

When we moved to Yreka 40 years ago, the toy box came along with us. I hadn’t thought about the box for a long time.  Every once in a while, my eye caught a glimpse of the box lying under the workbench as I passed by. In all those years, I never stopped to peek inside, well, maybe once or twice, and that was it. Until several days ago, when our son was home, I asked him to lift it and place it on the garage floor. I had plans! I peeked inside, and the box was packed with treasures and memories. Some toys had been added by our grandson, who is now 33.

The next day, I bought a quart of superior, scratch-resistant Early American stain. With Duane’s help, I’m going to sand the box, apply a pre-stain conditioner, and brush on the stain, applying many coats and preserving the nursery decal.

I’ll find a place in our house to give that toy box a home where it’s warm, secure, and loved. We have a 7-month-old great-grandson, Buddy, who visits us occasionally. I’ll share my toy box with him and introduce him to the vintage toys of long ago. And he can keep some of his toys there, as well.

I never thanked my dad for his love of building and for giving me that toy box. Maybe it’s not too late in my thoughts and prayers to tell him. 

Now I wonder – where will the next home be for that box?