My Marvellous Toy

"When I was just a wee little lass, full of health and joy, my father homeward came one night, and gave to me a toy..." I have always loved the music of Peter, Paul, and Mary, but this particular song brings back the most wonderful of memories of my growing up years. It conjures memories of happy events,when I was too small and uncaring to notice that they were some of the happiest times of my young life. I grew up as the second child, and eldest daughter, in my family of five siblings. My brother was born in New York City, but I was born on a farm in rural Pennsylvania. When I was still too small to remember, we moved to another rural community on a small, five or six acre gentleman's farm where we were joined in a few years by a sister and brother, with another sister joining us much later, after we had moved again. But the memory I am going to relate happened while just the two of us were growing together as each other's best friend and constant companion. Part of this is a dim memory from the lumber room in my mind, and part filled in by my mother's memories.

My parents were married a few weeks after my dad returned from WWII service in Europe and Africa. After he finished his service commitment in Georgia and Florida, they settled with my maternal grandparents in New York, my mother's hometown. City birds both, they knew very little about farm life, animal care, crops or much of anything related to farm life, but they decided after my grandfather's death to move with my grandmother back to Pennsylvania, where she had grown up, and build a new life. Together they bought a small farm way out in the country. I was born there, but don't remember a bit of it. When they moved to their own home, my brother and I took to country life easily. We grew crops, picked berries, fed the dogs, turkeys,chickens, pigs ( my most hated chore) while my dad was at work on the railroad. Times in the fifties weren't easy, as some readers might remember, and purchased items just for fun were often rare. Grandma made our clothes, we ate what we grew, and played imaginary games. But we never knew we didn't have things, because life was fun , exciting, and full. But I learned later that my parents worried. My dad had grown up in a fatherless family, where he lived with his widowed mother, aunt, and three sisters along with two cousins from a deceased aunt. He knew about having a job at age seven or eight, and about doing without during the Depression, so a harder life was not new to him. My Mom's father had worked a steady job during the Depression years, but she too knew about deprivations, at least a bit. So our first Christmas in our new home, they worried about how to make it a celebration for two children when funds were low and gifts hard to get. And as the holiday grew closer, they worried more and more.

Then, one day at work on the railroad, Dad met a man who was selling a box of little cars and trucks. I guess he needed money, not toys. Anyway,Dad bought the little box of vehicles, and on Christmas morning there was one gaily wrapped box addressed to the two of us together. We dug into it greedily, Mom remembered, and joyfully found the assortment of little trucks and cars. There were tractors, ambulances and fire trucks, big cars, little cars, a milk delivery truck, and even construction trucks. But mostly, Mom said, there were family style cars-- station wagons, two and four door cars in all colors and shapes. We were so excited. We played for days with those little cars and trucks, never realizing I guess that we only had one gift between us or that other kids might have received multiple gifts. They didn't go ZIP when they moved, or pop when they stopped, but we loved them just the same. Besides, we could create our own sounds for them. We never cared. All we knew was we loved those little cars .Santa had been so good to us! And our parents looked happy too.

Those little cars lasted for us for several months of fun. I'm sure they went into the sandbox outside once the weather improved ( if you have ever survived a northwestern Pennsylvania winter, you will understand this.) We never realized we probably would be considered poor by today's standards. We never thought we were deprived of anything. We enjoyed life, and life was fun. Hard work, but fun. Our fun came from ourselves, from the joy of making up stories about the people in our cars, from doing our assigned chores -- except for the pigs. I never enjoyed feeding those!--or from just playing together.

My own children are now married, with families of their own. I remember those growing years--- some my memories, others borrowed from my mom, and have vague memories of playing under that tree. I know some are secondhand impressions, but in that aforementioned lumber room I can see us very foggily,just impressions really, under that tree ( and it was a real tree, not artificial as most trees are now). Nowadays we all gather at Christmas to exchange gifts and listen to our favorite movies,stories and songs. Right now I am teaching my grandchildren to sing them too, just as I taught my children years ago. And one song they love--- and I play often--- is about that marvellous toy, brought home by dad one night, because it reminds me of the marvellous growing years, the magic of Christmas, and the memories I will treasure always. I have other pleasant memories of other Christmases and other holidays, but this one stands out. Christmas is always marvellous, a miracle of faith and family, but ours was made

more magical by a box of tiny, marvellous toys.