Kris Kringle Konfessions

By John Lane

I admit it: I’m old enough to remember (and can now say somewhat unashamedly with the distance of years) when I actually found myself praying—praying—for the complete Welcome Back, Kotter action figures. What did I know? Could I fathom that Travolta would one day be riding the hot rails toward Scientology? Or that Boom-Boom Washington would not pass gracefully into the eighties? Only TV could make a squalid, inner-city school look so attractive, to a Catholic-school kid like me wearing the obligatory monkey-suit every day.

But that’s for another therapy session.

In hindsight, I realize that much of my adulthood sadly (or joyfully) connected somehow to my toys of childhood. While I can’t make a direct connection from point A to point B, I sense the connection. I’ve made it musically, and sooner or later I’ll be able to tie it back to my toys. (Notice I keep saying “my toys,” all possessive-like. It’s not cute when you’re 37, is it?) Let’s sift through the evidence. . .

The Fort Apache Playset

If ever there was a toy that dated me, it’s this one. And now, like Marlon Brando in a ragged T-shirt wailing “Stella!” I have to admit I wish there was some way I could still own this, guilt-free, and play with it, erm, look at it admiringly. Of course as a child, I didn’t grasp the whole Cavalry-versus-Indian (now Native-American) tension and violence inherent in this toy. I was mainly taken with the teepees, the totem poles, the campfire, and the faux-stockade fence.

And here’s where the guilt really kicks in: even after discovering a paperback copy of Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee in my parents’ bookshelf, I still yearn for this toy. What’s wrong with me? In a past life, was I General Custer? Or I was a timid, French fur-trapper (look it up, it’s not dirty) who was killed in some sort of friendly fire while stalking beaver pelt (again, not dirty)? (“Ne tirez pas! Il est moi! John!” I cry, before an arrow pierces my coonskin cap.)

Electric Football Game

Not only pre-Wii, but pre-Atari.

If I could go back in time, look into a crystal ball, and envision GameCube’s Madden Football, I would look at this painted cookie sheet and say, “No thanks. I’ll hold out for the next 30-some years.” This game sort of embodies a lot of parenting or non-parenting in the seventies. Here’s a handy-checklist:

• A game that requires children to plug it in? Check.
• A game that requires the complete suspension of disbelief? Check.
• A game in which the pieces will inevitably disintegrate within a week? Check.

A certain generous but wine-soaked uncle gave this to my brother and me one Christmas. He meticulously set up the offense and defense. We began to think he really wanted this game for himself, but we remained quiet. And then he turned the game on, and it sounded like. . . well, a 100-volt current running under a baking sheet: VVVFFFVVVVFFFF, loud and persistent, while the players scrambled in various, nonsensical directions, as if they had all been blindfolded.

When the “receiver” carrying the ball was tipped over, he was down. Or if he ran into the sidelines or into the bench or into the wall (just like in real football!), he was down. I believe it was within an hour that my brother and I accidentally stepped on a handful of NFL heroes and my uncle acted as if we had literally chainsawed these jocks in the flesh and was completely horrified. The smell of model airplane glue soon drowned out the scent of gingerbread and pine in a brave attempt to mend limbs and heads. In the aftermath, they looked like war veterans who were shamefully pushed back into the battlefield. (“I don’t care if you’re missing both arms! TAKE THAT HILL, PRIVATE!”)

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