Superman jiggler

I was a bicentennial baby, so it can be said I was patriotic from birth. Born in 1976 in the city that never sleeps, with formative years at the tail end of the disco era and onslaught of the Reagan decade, I am a sum of those parts.

I am also a child of immigrants who to this day remind me of the hardships they experienced in order to provide for me this birthright. I am forever grateful.

As is my father, who will openly cry when the American National Anthem is played right before a Yankees game.

It is no surprise, that when it came to toys, if it was patriotic in anyway, my dad bought it for me. I even had an ABA basketball, and my dad had no clue what basketball was. He just liked the red, white and blue ball. 

It did surprise me though, when my dad brought home a Ben Cooper Superman jiggler toy for me. It wasn't sports related in any way, nor was it a glaringly obvious red, white, and blue item. He told me he was at the hardware store and they had them on the counter with a picture of Superman standing in front of the city and one with Superman holding the flag from the movie. Then it clicked for me, Superman to my dad was the ultimate patriot. He was an immigrant who did everything he could to defend his chosen country. My dad found the perfect patriotic toy.

This Superman jiggler became a mainstay for me for many years, even though all I knew of Superman at that time was what the Superfriends showed me on Saturday mornings. Sure, the string broke, and the color faded or peeled, and sometimes I would misplace him for long periods of time, but every time I found him, he was elevated to number 1 toy in my room, and my dad was my hero for giving him to me.

In 1982 when Superman the Movie was to be broadcast on ABC, I went through my room in a frenzy. I needed to find Superman so I could watch the movie while playing with him. It was necessary. All day long leading to broadcast time was spent in such a pursuit, I had enlisted my mom to help search the basement in final desperation. My father was handling dinner, and he, the man who falls asleep during any and every movie ever made, who's attention to the TV is only reserved for sports, *he* was excited to see Superman.

During one of my passes through the kitchen, the phone rang and my dad told me to answer it since his hands were full. It was long distance, I could tell due to the crackle on the line. My aunt's voice carried through, and I remember getting an uneasy feeling when she asked to talk to my father. I handed the phone to him and watched.

I remember him looking down and giving short answers. He thanked his sister and told me to get my mom since the movie had started. I didn't even notice. 

When my mom came upstairs I remember her asking who was on the phone. He looked at her and just said, "My father died." Then he looked at me and gave me a sad smile as he sat in his chair. The smile turned into laughter, which confused my mother, until she saw him pull his hand from underneath him holding my Superman jiggler. 

I don't have any memories of my paternal grandfather, but I know he wasn't overly pleased with my father's decision to follow my mother to America. And yet every time I see a Superman jiggler, I remember that day. I don't remember it as the day I lost a grandparent I barely knew though, I remember it as the day my dad sat on Superman and watched a movie with me without falling asleep.

Skipper

I received my very first official Barbie doll on my 6th birthday.

It just wasn't Barbie. It was Skipper, her little sister, but I didn't know any better. Sure she seemed kind of short compared to the Barbie knock-offs I was used to, but perhaps it was because this was the real thing. It made sense.

We celebrated my 6th birthday in Miami during a visit to my grandparents and my mother's brother's family... (and to go to Disney World, my father's favorite place to go). It was that uncle, my uncle Joe, that got me the Skipper.

My uncle Joe always got me the best toys on Christmas and my birthday. He was the hero that showed up one Christmas eve with a Cabbage Patch Kid when parents everywhere were out for blood. He got me the Beat It Michael Jackson doll when all stores only had the crappy Grammys outfit one.

I would not expect less from him. Of course HE got me a REAL Barbie!

To say I was pleased to have a Barbie would be like saying a fat kid is simply "pleased" to be offer a second piece of cake. I was ecstatic.

I don't remember anything about that birthday or what else I got. From old photos I see I cleaned up in the presents department, and that my cake had most awesome Disney characters one could use as toys... but none of that sticks in my memory. But I do recall ripping the paper containing my Barbie. I remember seeing the yellow box with the distinctive Barbie-esc script. (I couldn't read yet, but I recognized the logos and artwork from TV commercials.) I remember yanking her out of the packaging and discovering she came with a giant yellow skateboard. That was it... I spent the rest of the trip playing with Barbie.

She slept with me. She went to the pool and in the bathtub with me. She went to Disney World with me. Barbie was my pal.

When we got back home, this new found kinship with this plastic bombshell continued. By now though, her cute purple outfit (A pink bathing suit, with purple shorts, and a purple skirt) were getting a bit boring. I was able to convince my mom she needed a few new outfits, so off to OddLots we went.

That was when I got my first clue all that was not well in Barbieland.

The clothing we picked up were knock off fashion doll clothes that were meant to be used with Barbie. The problem was... they didn't fit. The dresses were too big. Now, being knock offs, my rationalisation skills kicked in BIG TIME. Of course they didn't fit. They didn't even come with shoes! They were not official Barbie clothes. Duh.

That excuse was blown out of the water when the very next week my mom was kind enough to buy me a REAL Barbie outfit at Woolsworth, after I explained that Barbie needed new shoes and the other outfits didn't come with any. And wouldn't you know it... the dress was too big as well. If that wasn't enough, the shoes not only did not fit... they were the wrong shape! See, my Barbie had flat feet, unlike my cheap fashion dolls that stood on their tippy toes. I figured it was BECAUSE she was real. Something was wrong.

I continued to stew about this until spring, for that was when all the kids in the neighborhood took to playing outside. That's when the bottom fell out.

I brought my Barbie out to play with the older girls down the block who had pretty much every Barbie thing you could think of. They had the Dream house, the camper, the horse, the Corvette, and of course Ken. When playing with them I was always relegated to being the next door neighbor, since I didn't have a real Barbie and only real Barbies could live in the Dream house. I figured this was it! I was in the house when I showed up with my Barbie.

Then I was told that my doll was not Barbie. It was Skipper, Barbie's little sister.

I could live in the Dream house, but no driving the Vette or camper. I couldn't ride the horse because I was too young. I couldn't go to the ball, because it was past my bedtime. It was worse than being the neighbor! At least the neighbor was allowed to borrow their clothes.

When I got home I took a good hard look at "Skipper."

She was still the doll that hung out with me during my 6th birthday when I had no children my age to play with. She was still my friend. Who cares if her REAL name was Skipper. In my bedroom, she was still "Barbie" to Mego Spider-man who kept asking out for dates even though she was taller than him, and she was still "Barbie" to John Travolta who didn't care how short she was, because he was into short chicks.

And she was still "Barbie" to me.

She'll always be Barbie to me.

Gonga

The 1980's was a great time to be a little girl. The selection of girl toys with cartoon tie ins seem to be never ending. You had Strawberry Shortcake, She-Ra, Cabbage Patch Kids, Popples, Dolly Pops, Glamour Girls and Monchichis. The quantity and quality was reaching boy toy levels.

The 1980's was not, however a great time to be a little girl whose parents only seemed to shop at outlets and clearance sales. It also did not help that most toys aimed towards girls seemed to come with a premium price tag. Nor was it advantageous to be the lone girl in class without the must have toy required to fit in the ever changing and ever judgmental girl society of the grade school playground.

Perhaps that is why I readily found kinship amongst the boys. As long as you had a few Hotwheels, a bike, a baseball mitt, and some cheap M.U.S.C.L.E guys, you were accepted without question.

This did not deter me from wanting to fit in with those of my gender, and come Christmas or my birthday I would make sure to include at least one of the must have girl status symbols on my list.

One particular year I was crazy over Monchichis. The commercials had me salivating. What a perfect toy for the Return of the Jedi crowd. A furry little friend you could dress up that was cute, had a tail and could suck his thumb.

Every time I saw the commercial, I'd point it out to my mom. If we were in a store that had them on display, I'd wax poetic about them. On Saturday mornings I'd pester my mom to watch the cartoon with me. I was in full blown parental brainwashing mode. I was going to insure that come January, after winter break, I would join the elite girls of my class and be accepted once I had my Monchhichi

Come Christmas, I was beyond ready for my little Japanese monkey doll. I remember ripping into my presents hoping each one would bring me closer. Of course, it would have to be the last gift I'd open, right?

Upon tearing into the wrapping paper like a child possessed, I gazed upon my prize: my brand new thumb sucking monkey... Gonga.

It wasn't a Monchhichi. It wasn't anything that even closely resembled a Monchhichi. It was a little gorilla who's only kinship to the Monchhichi was that he too could suck his thumb. The tag on his butt said his name was "Gonga". I called him "Disappointment." Gonga couldn't even wear clothes. Nothing would fit him, not even Teddy bear sweaters.

I never let on to my parents, though. I thanked them and told them I loved him.

When Christmas vacation was over, and we returned to school, all the girls in class gathered around to show off their new Monchhichis and accessories. I stood with the boys making fun of them, trading baseball cards, and racing the Hotwheels we'd all snuck into class in our pockets.

Lost Sgt. Slaughter

1986 was a great year to be a New Yorker. The Statue of Liberty was turning 100 years old and that Fourth of July was set to be the best ever! The Mets were in the middle of a fantastic pennant race which would end in a World Series championship (not that I cared, being a Yankees fan.) But the most important thing to happen in my young life in 1986 was me turning 10 years old.

Turning 10 meant a whole new slew of responsibilities and a bunch of hard fought freedoms. Those freedoms included being allowed to ride my bike to the video store to rent movies BY MYSELF! The flip side was I could be asked to bike to the grocery store by myself too, if we ran out of something midweek.

Turning 10 also meant a substantial bump on the allowance front... $5.00 a week!

Instead of blowing through my allowance I decided to save up. I really had nothing in mind to purchase, but I knew it would not be a clearanced toy, or a knock off or anything else along those lines. I made up my mind that for once in my life I was going to walk into a toy store and buy that latest, greatest thing I could. It was my mission.

As the months past, I still could not figure out what to get, until I was watching TV one afternoon and a GI Joe commercial came on. I knew then I would go blow through my savings on GI Joes!

I started slowly, buying a couple of figures at a time at the Woolsworth in Cityline. There wasn't anything very exciting about these purchases, other than I learned about sales tax and how much I disliked having to pay more than the posted price when I went up to the checkout.

One weekend I remember getting a flyer in the junk mail from a local toystore. (I loved going through toy flyers as a kid playing the old game "If I X amount of money what would I get?") And there in the flyer I saw pictured the great Serpentor in his Air Chariot AND Sgt Slaughter in his Triple T Tank... ON SALE!  After some begging and pleading, my parents agreed to drive me to that toy store, which was rather far. (Anything NOT within walking distance, or out of the Ozone Park area was considered "far".)

I remember that the boxed Joe vehicles were behind the counter, and being a rather shy kid it took forever to muster up the courage to ask the shopkeep for help. Actually, I mustered up the courage to ask my mom to ask the shopkeep for help. Before long we were on the way home, with my 2 vehicles!

Boy, did I have fun playing with Sgt. Slaughter! I was a big wrestling fan as well as a GI Joe fan, so sometimes the Sarge would wrestle Cobra guys. Most times, the Sarge would go on solo missions, since seriously, would Sgt Slaughter NEED any backup? Most of my other Joes were usually captured and the Sarge would of course, be the lone man to break into Cobra headquarters and single handedly save each and every Joe.

As 1986 wore on, my parents decided we were going to move from New York to Miami, Florida, to be closer to family. I was both excited and sad. I liked Florida. Everytime we went on vacation, we'd go to Disney World, go to the beach and have fun. What wasn't there to like about Florida? But at the same time I was sad because it did mean leaving behind all my friends, and my school.

We packed up the house into a moving van and left Queens for good.

In the U-Haul, I had made sure to pack all my GI Joes into my backpack so that I could play with them on way down to Florida. In fact, moments before getting into the truck, I had been playing with them in the hallway when my mom gave me the signal that it was time to go. I quickly packed them into my backpack and  we were off.

When we arrived at South of the Border, we dismounted as my dad wanted to take pictures, and get something to eat. I brought my Joes down with me. As my dad ran around posing for goofy pictures with my mother, I sat at a bench and looked into my backpack, looking for my favorite of all the Joes, Sgt Slaughter.

He wasn't there.

I looked again.

Still no Sarge.

It was then that it hit me... Sarge was doing recon ontop of the heater in the hallway at the old house in Queens, while me and the rest of the Joes were on the steps. I never packed him up! He was still there.

I ran and told my mother, and all she said was, "I'll buy you another one when we get to Miami Beach."

So I bided my time until we reached my grandparent's condo on Miami Beach. It was late at night. No shopping until morning.

Morning came, and everyone was still tired from the trip, but I was insistent. Lincoln Road Mall had a Woolsworth, and I knew it, and I kept reminding my mom about it. When she finally relented and took me later on in the day, I came to discover that they did not have the Sarge in stock. I was heartbroken, but I was promised that the next time we saw him, I would get him.

I never saw him on a store shelf again.

CHiPs motorcyle

When I started kindergarten, my lack of understanding the English language, and my status of only child made my socializing with the other children difficult. It did not help that I was a painfully shy child who was taught early on that the squeaky wheel did not in fact get the proverbial grease, but instead got the very real hand across the face. Lesson taught: keep quiet.

While that made me a teacher's dream, it also made me a teacher's nightmare. If I did not understand, instead of asking for help, I just smiled, kept quiet and faked it until I could figure it out alone. This, of course, lead to many misunderstandings of the sitcom variety that I may touch upon later. Just know that I quickly learned that a bum was not an explosive devise, and that "Dick" is not short for Dick Van Dyke.

Because we were young children and required supervision, I suppose, instead of a traditional recess with the older kids of the school, we were kept inside and had "Play Time." We had a variety of games, toys and other things to amuse ourselves. The most popular toys were the blocks and the miniature play kitchen set up. The teacher would assign us to either the block corner, or the doll corner. We would raise our hands and hope to get picked, and hope we got to where we wanted to go.

I usually went back to my desk and drew in crayon.

One day the teacher started to notice that no girl wanted to play with blocks and no boy wanted to play house. So instead of picking those with raised hands, she just randomly assigned kids. I ended up in the block corner. That's where I met Max.

Max was an Argentinian boy, who also struggled with English. We found a kinship in that. The more we spoke the more things in common we had. Turned out he lived about two blocks from my house.

I told my mother about him on the way out of class and she went up to his mother and introduced us. I guess my mom and his mom hit it off immediately, as we started hanging out on swing set after school quite a bit.

In class, Max and I became best friends. We always volunteered to play in the block corner. If one of us was chosen and the other was not, the chosen one would give up their spot to some other kid and we'd both go draw.

We started to notice that the teacher started making an effort to separate us. Max came up with an idea. He'd sneak in a toy from home and we'd play with that at our desks.

The first toy he ever brought in for us to play with was the CHiPs Motorcycle Launcher. Wed make ramps with stolen blocks from the block corner, we'd make obstacles with those fat crayons the school provided, we'd draw people and cut them out and make standees so the motorcycle could run them down, but most of all we'd found our own way to have fun.

Of course our teacher put the kibosh on it once she caught onto our setup. She told our mommies on us. Our mommies had our backs, but told us not to make waves in class and to mind our teacher. So we did... In OUR way.

We pretended we were no longer friends when the teacher was watching and we went back to our withdrawn ways. Finally noticing we were no longer participating and sad, the teacher relented.

We celebrated by playing with Max's CHiPs Motorcycle Launcher once again.

I don't know whatever became of Mrs. Micelli, our kindergarten teacher, or that CHiPs toy, but I do know that Max and I are still friends.

28 years and counting.

Found Spidey

As I have mentioned before, I was generally my mother's sidekick until I began school. My mom was never one to shirk responsibilities, and felt that leaving me to be watched by another adult in her stead was indeed avoiding the role that she took on when she became a mother.

That meant if my mom had errands to run, it was adventure time for me. Each new place to a child under the age of 5 can be a world of exciting and often scary situations. Since I knew better than to run amok in public, most of my adventures were silent imaginary scenarios. I had experience playing by myself at that point, so all was well.

On one such adventure I found myself on line at a very busy bank. My mother noticing how long the wait was said I could go sit quietly in the nice comfy leather seats reserved for those waiting to be seen by a loan officer. She did give me the caveat, if she looked in the direction and did not see me, all bets were off. I would have to go and stand in line with her and have to answer for disobeying. Believe me, that was not something I ever wanted to answer!

So I ventured forth to my new comfy local for the time being. It was an old fashioned leather armchair, the kind with the brass buttons that look like rivets. I always loved those chairs, as they instantly became spaceships, and the rivets became control and flight buttons.

After a few minutes of my long term space flight where I would be confined in my cockpit, I noticed something on the floor, behind the row of chairs across the ornate oriental rug that separated my ship from the others. It was red and blue, and could barely be seen as a chunky wooden leg from the armchair was blocking most of it from my view. What was it?!

This began a mind crushing period of time. I would look over across the back to the teller line and check to make sure my mom was not watching. I would then fidget and try to obtain a better view of this mysterious red and blue object until I would notice my Mom's gaze starting to turn in my direction. Rinse and repeat.

At one point during this struggle with my armchair, I almost fell off. But it was at that very point that I received visual confirmation of what my quarry was... It was Spider-man. It was a beautiful 8 inch Mego Spider-man that some other child must have dropped. I looked around, but other than an older gentleman sitting a few chairs away from me, who must have thought I was learning disabled or at the very least, plain stupid, there was no one else around in that waiting area.

I looked towards the teller line and all I saw were grumpy adults who were not happy to be standing in that never-ending line for ONE teller. From what I could tell, there were no other children in the bank. Spidey was going to be mine! That is, if I could figure out a way to get out of my chair, crawl under a different chair, grab him, and get back into my chair before my mom could notice. Then I would have to explain where he came from! What would I say? I found him?

It was the truth, but would my mom let me keep him? What if she made me give him to the bank owner? Then he would have a Spidey to play with.

As I sat there going through the scenarios, my mom tapped me on my shoulders. I hadn't noticed she had moved up in line, much less that she had been at the teller window when I last cased out the bank for other kids. With a sigh, I pointed to where the Spider-man was and whispered to my mom that it looked like someone dropped a toy.

She walked over, reached behind the chair and smiled at the old man and said straight faced, "My daughter dropped her doll." She handed the Spidey to me and said we'd talk outside.

When we stepped out to the cold crisp New York air, she turned to me and said, "Oh well, finders keepers!"

Sometimes I wonder about the poor kid who lost that Spider-man, and then I remember my mom. Finders keepers, indeed.  

Interlude: Just as good

Before I was legitimately old enough to understand the true economic state of my family, I knew we were in no way rich.

I knew by comparing the toys I did have to those of a rude little kid about three houses down. His name was Charlie, and he had every toy you could think of. He would come outside with his toys and play in his fenced in front yard, while the rest of the children on our street rode by on our hand-me-down bikes like gawking construction workers admiring a lady with too short a skirt.

Now, Charlie would on occasion choose one of the many admirers and invite them through the gate to partake of his many wares. The rest were "allowed" to watch them play.

I was never chosen, because I had committed the unforgivable sin of being born a girl.

Charlie did serve somewhat of purpose in my life, though. He served as toy catalog. If he had it, it was available at stores. I just could not for the life of me figure out WHAT store.

Whenever my mother would go shopping, she always took me along. It helped that I was rather well behaved. My mother was a bargain shopper, so generally when shopping we would stop at multiple shops. Among them: Alexanders, Odd Lots, ABC (in Cityline), Woolsworth, and several Oriental market type stores that carried stereotypical Chinatown like wares.

Although I was usually allowed to wander in the toy sections, the toys I found were usually either a few years old (and heavily clearanced) or they kind of looked like the toys I was looking for, or were in foreign packaging (read: knock-offs.)

On the few rare occasions I would find something I wanted, like say Voltron, my mom, smooth salesman that she was, would point out that the Go Lion Force Robot thing that was not diecast, but most probably blow molded was "just-as-good."

Although I never quite fell for this trick, I got the message loud and clear, "We can't afford it, get the knock-off or go home without a toy."

In my imagination, whichever knock-off I happen to be playing with, was of course the real thing. We all had grand adventures, Plastic Lion Robot, Googly-eyed Godzillaish Lizard, Bo and Luke Duke (on clearance from TruValue), their ride, a broken Bespin cloud car I found in the neighbor's trash one day (which I still own), Remco Warlord (instead of He-Man), Decker, and a Rambo lookalike from Remco's GI Joeish line.

Of course all the fun would come to a screeching halt, the day Charlie rode his brand new BMX by my house and loudly made fun of my cheap toys.

I started playing in my backyard more often after that.

Charlie was a jerk.

Mego Batgirl

[Preface: In previous posts I have alluded to an incident involving a set of Magnetic Batman and Robin figures. At times I come across as bitter, and in truth, I am to a certain extent. This incident is a painful childhood memory, and to this day I still carry some of the hurt. I don't speak of it often, and I have been putting this one story off for a while to the point that I have updated less often than I would like to. Today, I have decided it's now time to let go.]

It was the Christmas season of 1980. Ronald Reagan had just been elected president of the United States, and my father was overjoyed. In January he would take office, and President Carter and the lean times of the 1970's would finally be over. I would turn 5 that first week of January, and we would celebrate it Uruguay, with our extended family, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins that we were only able to see every 2 to 3 years.

As the 1980's had promised, this new decade was already looking good for my family. My parents had saved up and were now home owners of a 2 family walk-up in Ozone Park, Queens. This Christmas was to be celebrated like no other. As such, the first week of December included a shopping trip to Alexanders to purchase a full sized tree, decorations, more lights than should be allowed, and a few odds and ends for family.

Normally shopping trips involved my mother and I on a bus or the subway, as we were a 1 car family, with that 1 car being my father's mode of transportation for work. This Christmas, though was special. My father wanted to come along, as he felt that it was his responsibility to make the outside of the house glow like the sun. If it involved ladders, nails and hammers... it was man's work. We piled into our 1972 mustard yellow Ford Maverick (with the brown vinyl roof) and went off for a Saturday of shopping.

I don't recall much from that shopping trip, other than it was cold outside, hot inside, and boring. Relief came over me as we approached the checkout lanes. That meant it was time to go home.

That's when I saw it.

The one image that would burn into my mind for decades to come. I still dream of it.

Over each checkout lane hung white chains from the ceiling. Usually they attached teddy bears, dolls, balloons, anything that would bring a young child to a high pitched scream, and thereby force the parent to buy it to shut them up.

But I did not see teddy bears or dolls. I saw aisle after aisle, checkout lane after checkout lane, from ceiling to right above the counter... Mego magnetic Batmans and Robins. They had been taken out of the boxes and were hanging from their hands and feet. Some were posed as though they were climbing. Others held hands and made a Batman/Robin chain from over one counter to the next. It was beautiful.

And I wanted them so badly I could taste it. And it would indeed taste good. Like candy flavored candy topped with candy and sprinkled with even more candy.

I went to my father, the weak link in the "asking for stuff" chain of command. I asked him, "If I'm really good, do you think Santa will bring me a Batman and Robin like those?" as I pointed above our heads. It was too close to Christmas to even consider asking for anything outright. I was never a stupid child. I was just a little naive.

My father's response was a parental cliche', "You'll have to remember to ask Santa."

Fine. Now I just needed to find Santa, or one of his many emissaries.
[note: my parents once explained to me that Santa is a rather busy man, and as such he cannot be everywhere. To that end he employs emissaries around the world to stand at street corners and at shopping centers to "take orders" from the children of the world, and that these emissaries reported to the big man himself daily. I was a rather inquisitive child, and my parents were rather creative in answering my logistical questions with answers that had a little real world logic for backing.]

I wrote a letter to Santa with the help of my mother. I placed the letter in a mailbox and went on to dream of Christmas morning.

Christmas came and went. No Batman or Robin.

Evidently, the man can fly around the world in the span of one night delivering toys to every boy and girl, but he cannot read Spanish.

Immediately after Christmas, my mother needed to make another trip to Alexander's to buy some odds and ends for our month long trip to South America, and exchange some clothes which were too small for me already. Since my birthday was coming up soon, my mom said I could pick out something as a gift. I knew exactly what I wanted and made a beeline to it.

When I arrived... all those wonderful chains above the checkout lanes were bare. I asked my mother if she remembered the toys that were there a month previously, and she did not.

As I went to the toy section, I remember walking by a dump full of boxes. I know now that it was full of Mego 8 inch Batgirls, Catwomans, and Supergirls. What I knew then was, it was NOT the Batmans or Robins I wanted, so I didn't really care.

Disappointed, I grabbed an 8 Inch Mego Batgirl.

I have never hated a toy so much in my whole life. It really wasn't her fault though. She was just a victim of circumstance.  Just was a substitute for what I really wanted, and never received. I just couldn't look at her and NOT see that image of Magnetic Batmans and Robins.

And I could never look at Santa the same either.

Decker

This is what I generally refer to as the  Saga of Decker.

I obtained my Mego Decker action figure one chilly morning during one of my many childhood visits to my godfather, all the way over on the east side of the Van Wyck. Yes, a trip consisting of a total 15 minutes from my home. Across the street from my godfather's place was a small general store. It was a cross between a hardware store and pharmacy from what I can remember. On occasion my mother and I would go there to pick up little things while my father visited with my godfather.

On one such occasion, I noticed a spinner rack full of carded toys. Not much in the way of selection, but I did spot a Star Wars figure. There amongst the dredge was an Empire Strikes Back Han Solo! Oh boy, this was my chance to actually OWN a Star Wars figure. Finally I could shut up the jerk with the Bespin Luke.

I grabbed Han Solo and as I was about to show my mom, I noticed a figure from Star Trek the Motion Picture. Being that I was about 4 or so, and as of yet unable to read, I thought it was Kirk. Well, I knew my mom was a fan of the show. I had caught her watching it on occasion. I figured, I bet she'd get a kick out of it, so I grabbed it to just LITERALLY SHOW HER.

Of course it played as as follows: I carry two figures up to my mom who is talking to the guy behind the counter. I show her the Star Trek figure first. She takes it from me. I go to hand her Han Solo, and she puts it counter and says we'd better get back. Once across the street, I'm handed my new toy: Star Trek's own Decker.

I guess in the confusion of her not paying attention to me as I tried to explain which I wanted and which I just wished to show, she misunderstood and just grabbed the first thing I handed her and paid for it.

So there I was with my brand new "I don't know who the heck this is" Star Trek guy. I figured he was Kirk. So I called him Kirk. He became my new best friend, being that he was the only 3 3/4inch figure I owned at the time. (I had a previous relationship with a Comic Action Hero Penguin, but that ended badly... for the Penguin.) Still, Decker and me, we had lots of fun. Sometimes he'd wear a cape and fly like a superhero. Sometimes he'd put on a parachute and become a daredevil the likes of which had not been seen since Evel Knievel.

One day, a year or so later, I was playing with the kids next door when one particular kid flung Decker high into the air... and he landed on the roof. Bye Bye Decker.

A couple of more years go by, and the neighbors have their roof redone... and off the roof flies Decker. A little worse for wear, but still good ole Decker. Of course he's caught by the kid next door, who has experienced a bout of amnesia it seems since he claims Decker was his all along and that *I* threw him on the roof. His mother takes his side. Again, Decker seemed lost to me.

But that did not last long. All it took was patience, and a little bit of the sneak, and Decker was back in my possession. Yes, I bided my time and when I saw the opportunity, I stole him from the kid next door. Granted since he was mine to begin with, I don't actually consider it "stealing" so much as I consider it liberating a POW.

Decker was an indoor toy from that point on. He wasn't quite the same, the ravages of being behind enemy lines had left their scar. The kid next door was a toy biter. Decker came back from the front without any fingers on his hands, and missing a good 40% of his paint. But he was mine.

I still have Decker. It's funny, for a figure I never wanted, he turned out to be a pretty good toy.

Super Powers Superman

When I was a child, my choices of after school TV viewing were pretty limited. Sure, you had GI Joe, Transformers, Voltron and Thundercats, but that was a measly 2 hrs of cartoon viewing! Unlike today where there are entire channels dedicated to cartoons, we had to make due with the many syndicated live action (read:mind numbing) reruns of Diff'rent Strokes, Three's Company, and of course, the deathbringer of afternoons... MASH. To this day, I cannot stand to hear the first few notes of "Suicide is Painless" without having a panic attack. MASH signaled the end of a fun afternoon and the beginning of the nightly parental confiscation of the the TV. Oddly enough, MASH made for a pretty good segue into the 6 o'clock news.

Now, not all live action syndicated shows were bad. In fact one stick out rather predominantly in my mind: 

The 1966 Batman TV show.

Every afternoon, Adam West would don the cowl, and Burt Ward would slip on the pixie shoes and for a half hour (and sometimes a full hour) would battle evil in beautiful technicolor!

As soon as the show was over, it seemed like every kid on the block would flood the stoops and streetcurbs, all with the same thought in mind:

"I wanna be Batman!"

"But you got to be Batman last time! You be Robin."

"But I won't want to be Robin."

"I'll be the Joker." 

"My porch is the Batcave."

"My bike'll be the Batmobile."

And so on until dark when mothers near and far would stick their heads out the front door and declare, "DINNER!"

That simple 20 year old show captured the imagination of every child I knew. So much so, that on Saturday Mornings, when The Superfriends would come on, Batman seemed to be a shell of the man we spent the week with. 

One day, while watching TV a rather curious commercial caught my eye. Kenner introduced me to the Super Powers lines. Finally, I would get another chance at Batman and Robin figures! (I had experienced a setback a few years previously in attempting to acquire a  Mego Magnetic Batman and Robin set. But that is a story for another time.)

They even released a Batmobile. It didn't look like the REAL Batmobile, but any car Batman was in automatically BECAME the Batmobile.

On our very next shopping trip to Cityline for various clothing related things, we stopped into the Woolsworths. Now, Woolsworths was a welcome retreat after spending hours upon hours watching my mother buy underwear and socks for the family. Woolsworths had a toy section I could go and browse in. After a few minutes, my eyes went straight to a locked display cabinet. (This was one of those "I need a salesman to open the case so I can buy it" things.) From behind the glass Batman and Robin seemed to wave at me. 

To say that it took one minute to locate my mother and drag her to the toy section would be to exagerrate. I do not think it took that long.

Normally I was not a begging sort of child. In fact, I never really ASKED for stuff. I was always rather subtle. The usual "Oh mom, look how neat that it," and then I would go through the work of explaining exactly HOW neat the item was, and that it's probably alot of fun, and well you get the point. I'd try to get my mom to offer to buy it for me. I would feign humility saying how it was unnecessary and make her insist. In the end, I would come home with the toy.

This was not one of those times. I downright asked my mom for Batman and Robin. And the Batmobile. In hindsight, I do believe the Batmobile was the dealbreaker. I was asking for too much at the end of a day where too much money had already been spent. So I got the "Mommy would buy it for you if she had the money" speech. Lord, I hated that speech. That may be why I never came right out and asked for things. I just didn't want to take the chance that I would get that speech.

But all was not completely lost. At seeing my apparent disappointment, my mother said she had enough money to buy one. I could get one at thet very moment, and as soon as she saved some more money we would come back and I could get the other one.

I wasn't about to fall for that again. I'd fallen for that line before with other toys. Sure, we'll come back... and by that time there wouldn't be any more. So my choice was either get a Batman without a Robin. Who would Batman call "Chum"? I could get a Robin without a Batman. Who would rescue Robin when he was tied up? Or I could get nothing.

And suddenly a third choice looked out at me from behind the glass: Superman.

Superman didn't need anyone. He was Superman! 

When the sales clerk came over unlock the case and he asked which one I wanted, I calmly said, "Superman." My mom was rather perplexed. "I thought you wanted Batman and Robin." 

"I want Superman more," was the only answer I could come up with.

We did return to Woolsworths during our next shopping excursion. I went straight to the toy section and there were no Super Powers figures at all.

And once again, I went without Batman and Robin.

Baker Smurf

I started kindergarten at the ripe old age of 6. It was my first lone venture into the world.

Okay, maybe not so lone. My mommy came along.

You see, until then, I had never been apart from my mother. She was a stay at home mom (or as we called it back in the 70's, "a mom".) She took me everywhere with her. I never had a babysitter nor I was ever left with relatives. No, I was attached at the hip to my mother. You can imagine the look on my face when the whole topic of going to school came up. "What do you mean you drop me off and leave me alone in a room full of strangers?"

There were other issues, of course. Although I was born in the United States, my parents were not. They had immigrated long before I came around, but were still in the process of acclimating. They spoke rudimentary English, enough to get by in NYC, but almost exclusively spoke in Spanish to each other and to other members of the family.  I say "almost exclusively" because they were both fans of cussing in English, but that is a story for another day.

My point in this diversion is to explain that until the age of 6, I spoke only Spanish. I understood very little English. What I knew, I learned from Sesame Street and the cartoons of the day.

When Kindergarten came into play, I found myself being abandoned by my mother, in a room full of strangers who did not understand me, and who I could not understand myself. I felt like an alien. I felt like a baby. So I made like a baby and cried until they called my mommy in to calm me down.

After that, my mother began her unpaid career of "Teacher Helper" for my Kindergarten class. I stopped crying, and started to acclimate myself. Soon I made friends and learn the language...but if my mom ever mentioned retiring from being a helper....waterworks.

One Thursday, on the way home from class, my mom mentioned needing something from the stationary store a block away from the school. It was an old fashioned pharmacy/stationary store/ 5 & Dime kind of place. It's still there in one incarnation or another, if Google Streetview is to be trusted.

While my mom did what she had to, I found myself staring into the glass display counter. It was the first time in my life I ever saw the Schleich Smurf PVC figurines. My mom must have been silently observing me as I went one by one and examined the little blue elves, because she came up behind me and in a soft voice asked if I wanted one, I could have one.

I picked Baker Smurf.

Not because I particularly like baking or baking-like activities. Honestly, I thought he was some sort of digger Smurf with a shovel. Only when I got him home did I realize that it wasn't dirt, but a loaf of bread that he held. I felt a little stupid, but that lasted only for a little bit.

The very next Thursday, on our walk home from school my mom turns to me asks if I wanted to stop by stationary store to look at some more Smurfs. Well, ya I wanted to look at more Smurfs!

Once I was mesmerized by the magical display case bursting at the seams with Smurfy goodness, my mom makes the declaration:

If I behave myself, get good grades, refrain from crying and act like a big girl...every Thursday I will get a new Smurf.

I behaved myself. I got straight A's. I didn't cry.

And ...I got a Smurf every Thursday without fail for at least 2 years.

Bespin Luke

I was 4 yrs old when The Empire Strikes Back first hit the silver screen. At that time, my family lived in a small first floor apartment in a rather poor area of Queens, New York. As such, I tended to play outdoors only when my mother was available to supervise, otherwise I was left to my own devices indoors.

I was an "only child" at that time. You could say, I was a "lonely child". Bad pun? Yes, but accurate.

There were other children on the block where I lived, but not in the same building. I usually watched these children play ball in the street, or ride bikes, all from my bedroom window. I wanted very much to join, but they were all older children. So I just sat there and watched.

It was around the time Kenner started airing commercials for the Empire Strikes Back toys when it happened. A boy moved into an apartment upstairs. He wasn't much older than me, and like me he wasn't allowed to play outside unsupervised. I'd see him on the stairs or playing in the hallway. At some point my mother and his must have spoken and they would allow us to play together in the hallway... as long as we didn't go outside.

Sounds good doesn't it? It wasn't. That kid was a jerk.

One day he came over with a brand new Luke Skywalker in Bespin Fatigues action figure! He showed me his lightsaber and gun, but I could only see it. I wasn't allowed to touch it. I was a girl, and well, aside from having cooties, girls lose accessories it seems.

To convince him otherwise, he said, I'd have to bring out MY Star Wars action figures so we could play. Problem was, I didn't have any Star Wars figures. Heck, I wasn't sure WHAT Star Wars was, other than what I had seen in the toy commercials. (I was convinced Han Solo was captured by an upside drinking glass for years!) And don't let it be forgotten that Star Wars were "boy toys", and I was NOT a boy. So I went inside my home and came back with something that might pass for an action figure, a Playmobil knockoff. To say I was laughed at would be a disservice to the howling histerics I was subjected to.

So went back inside, sat at my window, and watched the kids outside play ball and ride their bikes once more.