Videos abound online in which Rubik’s Cube gurus demonstrate how to solve the puzzle. Novices will have no trouble with the first simple rule: keep the cube upright at all times. Beyond that, the prevailing strategy is far more complicated: memorize and apply a set of algorithms that account for most arrangements of colored tiles across the cube’s six surfaces. Outstanding Rubik’s Cube performance obviously requires dedication beyond the average rainy-day folly—it’s a vocation.

Many other playful pursuits prize mind-boggling rapidity achieved through mind-numbing perseverance, and include something for everyone. Those who can tolerate skintight suits may gravitate toward speed skiing. There’s also competitive eating—though skintight suits are out of the question—and speed pumpkin carving, from which I’d prefer to keep a safe distance. More sedentary or cautious folks, like me, should be satisfied with Perfection, a matching game demanding mastery in less than 60 seconds. The noisy explosion at the buzzer used to terrify me, and I practiced harder to avert that crisis.

Midway on the spectrum between speed skiing and Perfection lies sport stacking. Rarely have I seen people display sharper concentration and focus than when they are hustling to build and dismantle pyramids of plastic cups with machinelike efficiency. Watching a tournament here at the National Museum of Play at The Strong some years ago, I noticed sport stackers displaying Zen-like steadiness—at least until they stopped the timer and exploded in triumph.

These high-speed, no-frills contests stand in opposition to longer endurance challenges such as hula hooping, jumping rope, Pogo Bal bouncing, and juggling, which not only test one’s stamina but perhaps invite playful embellishment as well. There’s simply no time for that when every hundredth of a second matters. Yet, the two share common goals: in striving to exceed others’ records, competitors ultimately better themselves. And that’s well worth the time invested.

Sifting through hundreds of cabinet cards, portraits, and candid snapshots has been an enjoyable and thought-provoking process. As Kodak, one of the pioneers of personal photography, now faces an uncertain future, I think about where we would be without the company and George Eastman, the man credited with making the camera available (and affordable) to the general population. His accomplishment has encouraged us to document whatever we find beautiful, memorable, or important.

Thanks to cell phones and smart phones, a camera is now almost always within reach. In an age where taking pictures, posting pictures, and viewing pictures has become more instantaneous than Kodak’s Instamatic Camera, I find myself wondering if the instant gratification of digital photography has made photographs underappreciated. It seems many people erase images just as quickly as they take them. If people had done that previously would we have such a rich, illustrated history?

It’s easy to forget that a time existed when taking your own pictures was considered a novelty, a time when people delighted in photographing friends and family, a new baby, children with toys, a new car, or even the family pet, and then waited for days—yes, days!—to see the resulting images. Although the clothing and the people in the images have changed—not to mention the photographic process itself—the sentiment has not. People want to capture the moments that matter most; they want to make their memories tangible.

Many photographs in The Strong’s collections depict the traditional moments one might expect to find. After all, who doesn’t want to remember birthday parties, Christmas morning, or their child’s first day of school? Achievements and portraits also make up a great deal of our photographic collection, but I’ve also encountered a wonderful mix of images depicting people at play, enjoying the simple pleasures that come with daily life, such as building a snowman, playing a game, or constructing a fort from a large box. Occasionally, I puzzle over the context of the situation in some of the images I come across. For instance, a snapshot of two girls looking quite serious, standing next to one another on a sidewalk, clutching ukuleles; who are they and where were they headed? I imagine they are ukulele-wielding sisters Midge and Madge, musical prodigies from a small town, about to take their talent on the road. I am almost certain that the actual story behind this image is far more interesting than any fictional anecdote I could craft, but for someone, this image does exactly what a photograph should do: it sparks a memory and tells a story.

A few years ago, Kodak ran a television advertisement communicating this very idea, combining world renowned photographs with personal, everyday images. Whatever Kodak’s future may be, I have no doubt that its achievements have left an impression that will live forever, the way any good photograph should.

Over the past year, I have digitized (by scanning and photographing) hundreds of paper dolls and toys from The Strong’s extensive collection, including a number that double as advertisements. One hallmark of successful advertising is that potential customers seek out the ad rather than merely acting as a passive audience for its marketing message. As an example, people often share videos of their favorite commercials from the Super Bowl. But the pattern is nothing new. Advertisers have long understood the power of the “nag factor,” which is when kids badger their parents to purchase a product. As Barbara Whitton Jendrick observes in the introduction to Antique Advertising Paper Dolls in Full Color, “What many people do not realize is that long before television, advertisers, having discovered the value of selling a product by appealing to children, used paper dolls and paper toys instead of television. One doll or toy from a set of 10 or 12 accompanied the product, along with instructions on how to obtain the remainder of the set (usually by purchasing more of the product). The child, delighted with his free plaything, naturally badgered his parents to purchase a particular brand of cereal, thread, coffee, etc., so that he could complete his set.”

Yes, the quickest way to a consumer’s wallet is through a collector’s heart or, in this instance, through the hearts of his collection-minded children. Paper dolls and toys might not hold the same prominence as they did in earlier eras, but advertising toys live on all around us. Take the Hess Toy Truck, for example. Nearly 40 years after advertising dolls lost popularity, the first Hess truck, a gas tanker, arrived just before the holidays in 1964. Since then, Hess has launched a new truck or vehicle each year for children and collectors alike. And what are Happy Meals and their accompanying toys but yet another way of advertising with playthings?

So the next time you wind up an Energizer Bunny toy or tuck your child into bed with her Snuggle teddy bear, remember that you’ve bought into the appeal of advertising playthings the same way that previous generations have done for more than 100 years.

While supercharged versions of sledding such as luging and bobsledding qualify as sports, sledding itself falls into the category of pure play. Hours of fun lie ahead when you have a sled and are presented with a thick layer of snow covering big hills, small hills, or hills with lots of bumps. Toboggans, snow tubes, saucers, wooden sleds, plastic sleds, metal sleds, sleds with runners, and steerable sleds all serve one main purpose: to get you from the top of a hill to the bottom in a swift and exciting manner. With a little inspiration, a cafeteria tray smuggled back to the dorm or a sheet of cardboard from the basement can take you sliding at top speed!

Sledding is a timeless and ageless activity. In northern states kids live for sledding in the winter, in southern states kids yearn for a rare snowfall to cover the grass. Growing up near Binghamton, New York, my friends and I kept sledding right through high school. Even in college my dorm held sledding parties. Last winter at the ripe old age of 40—er, 29—I went snow tubing with a friend and her high-school-aged niece and couldn’t have had a better time! We drank hot cocoa afterward and made plans for more tubing this winter.

If you have favorite memories of sledding, we’d love to hear from you! Go to America at Play: Play Stories to share your stories, pictures, and videos.

Browsing through the stories posted on the America at Play website, I’ve found that others have had similar experiences. Our favorite toys and games not only provided hours of childhood bliss, but they also have larger, lasting influences on other aspects of our lives. Some submissions recount the way that favorite toys have bridged generations, thus becoming a part of a family’s story. A Dollhouse through the Generations tells the story of a dollhouse that has delighted four generations of girls in a single family. Another contestant writes that her own love of Star Wars action figures, despite their categorization as “boy toys,” has inspired her daughter’s likewise fearless love of Star Wars movies and toys.

Like me, others found that their favorite toys helped shape their identity. One participant credits Hot Wheels cars with instilling a love of collecting and organizing: “I organized my Hot Wheels in their Hot Wheels carrying case… and then reorganized them again and again.” In A Lifetime of Adventure and Learning, another contestant tells of the powerful influence the role-playing game Dungeons & Dragons has had on his life. It sparked his interest in history, science fiction, and writing, and he concludes that the game “is unique in that it can have a long term effect on a person that permeates their whole lives. My life would have been so dull were it not for that little red box.”

Finally, other toys and games have the power to foster relationships and create some truly unforgettable moments. In A Jenga Story, we read of how the game Jenga brought joy to a group of children at a camp for poverty-stricken families in Vietnam: “The game attracted a steady stream of kids, who loved it. Their mood was exuberant, and they cheered me on as I used my minimal Vietnamese to count off the number as kids removed each successive Jenga piece.” This story, like the others, attests to the incredible impact that a simple toy or game can have on the people who play with and love them—it’s really no wonder that such toys receive National Toy Hall of Fame nominations.

What toys and games have played an important role in your life? Share your story using the America at Play: Play Stories website.

With that in mind, I recalled a question from a teacher who was working with her students to establish a timeline of play. Her question: “When did play begin?” My immediate reaction led me to Adam and Eve and their sons, Cain and Abel, since I can’t imagine having children and not immediately and instinctively playing with them. Beyond that quick response, I began to think that the answer would depend on whether you define play as either instinctive or intentional. We take note of a chimpanzee or crow that employs a twig as a tool. When, I wondered, did we begin to use sticks as toys—let alone honor them with induction into the National Toy Hall of Fame?

Fortunately for the teacher and me, in addition to a research library and an artifact collection devoted to the study of play, The Strong has its own staff experts on the topic. I elicited the help of Scott Eberle, our Vice President for Play Studies, who offered this interpretation:

When did play begin? It’s a difficult question to answer. Check out Jaak Panksepp, the neuroscientist, who argues that play among rats suggests that play is original mammalian equipment. So, from that perspective, you have to go back at least to the dawn of mammalian history for the beginning of play. (Date mammals rise to the era immediately preceding the extinction of the dinosaurs.) Gordon Burghardt contends, however, that reptiles are capable of play, and as play impulses originate in brain structures already present in reptiles, these impulses would antedate the rise of mammals, pushing the date back considerably farther.

While researching the link between play and intellectual growth, I found a copy of The Art of Teaching in Sport, a book published in the late 1700s that encourages parents and teachers to instruct children by taking advantage of the child’s natural inclination to learn through play. The book’s full title spells out its intention: The art of teaching in sport; designed as a prelude to a set of toys, for enabling ladies to instill the rudiments of spelling, reading, grammar, and arithmetic under the idea of amusement. I was impressed by this early understanding of play until I remembered a quote from the philosopher Plato from about 2,000 years earlier on The Strong’s website: “Do not … keep children to their studies by compulsion but by play.”

My answer to that interesting question? Play is as old as we are.

The Strong’s collections include a scrapbook from one family’s trip to Yellowstone, the country’s first national park. Trekking from Cleveland, Ohio, in a 1914 Ford Model T, the Wards camped in a tent along the way and ultimately earned a photo op with a wild bear. (Smokey and Yogi’s friendly faces hardly inspired more appropriate caution in subsequent decades.) Those without the means to hit the road lived vicariously through board games trumpeting the thrills and dangers of automotive travel. The Flivver Game punished would-be drivers for neglecting to fill the gas tank and rewarded them for overcoming mechanical trouble.

Families with disposable income put millions more cars (especially station wagons) on the road after World War II, and companies designed travel-themed games to be played in the backseat while keeping an eye out the window. Travel games took a hit, however, after President Eisenhower implemented the interstate highway system in 1956. As cars bypassed local roads and entire towns, the scenery just wasn’t the same. Passengers matching roadside sights with those designated on the Car Travel Game board played a modified version using “ONLY the BLUE spaces”—merely half the landmarks—when driving on a toll road, where mail boxes and schools appeared less frequently, if ever. Same goes for giant beets, I’d imagine.

Despite the interstate’s lull and the newly accepted dangers of bear encounters, there’s still joy in car travel. On winter nights, my parents drove me slowly through Philadelphia streets to admire the Christmas lights. On summer days hurtling down the Atlantic City Expressway, my grandparents’ favorite Sinatra standards floated over my seat and out the open window. Today, when I visit family in New Jersey, I eagerly point out my favorite sights along the Pennsylvania Turnpike: a battalion of wind turbines on the horizon, the Lehigh Tunnel that blasts through a mountain—a mountain!—and the rock formation that looks like Sam the Eagle (trust me) when viewed from just the right angle. They make me too happy to feel stressed, and they never lose their luster when approached with an open mind and innocent spirit.

Come to think of it, after the house was built, my sisters and I spent more time rearranging furniture (such as our bright yellow side chairs and sofa) than we did playing with our dolls. Just as we could change our dolls into different outfits, we could change the entire look of our dollhouse with a few choice aesthetic decisions. The dollhouse’s seven rooms gave us countless possibilities; however, as the oldest daughter and head “interior designer,” I always set rules for my younger sisters. The garage and horse stable were always the two bottom rooms; the kitchen, dining room, and living room spaces were in the middle; and the bedrooms were on the top floor. Everything had a place—or at least it did until my youngest sister would let the horses sleep in the attic or my brother’s action figures invaded and Barbie and her bed were moved “outside.”

I hadn’t thought of my childhood dollhouse for years until I was given a recent project where I had the pleasure of photographing more than a dozen late 19th- and early-20th century dollhouses from the National Museum of Play’s collections. As I set up my tripod and took light measurements, other Collections Team members furnished the dollhouses with accessories. I watched as they placed tiny chairs around the ornate tables and flashed back to my youth and the hours my sisters and I spent decorating our dollhouse.

Photographing artifacts here at The Strong often gives me a firsthand sense of their play appeal, but never have I been so tempted as I was by the dollhouses. Perhaps I’ll have to talk my siblings into helping me build a dollhouse for my three-year-old niece so we can play again. This time, I promise to restrain my inclination to act as the interior design style police and hand over control to a new generation of dollhouse lovers.

Though I played both football and baseball in high school, I have to admit that football was my first love. Back in 1963 (which seems like a hundred years ago now), I was like any other kid, moving into high school and up in the world. I’d already demonstrated my baseball skills; now I finally had the opportunity to show my prowess on the gridiron. With great excitement and anticipation, I donned my first football uniform. It instantly transformed my scrawny 145-pound physique and made me feel powerful and invincible. From the start, I couldn’t wait to make it to my senior year so I could play on the varsity team. Naturally, I saw myself as the star halfback, running the ball, scoring touchdowns, and generally holding court as the life of the football party. However, fate reserved few glory days for me.

After several sweaty and uneventful seasons, I finally made it to my senior year. We senior players got to date the varsity cheerleaders. We got to run through the paper-covered hoop before each game. We got to hear our names announced over the loudspeaker every Saturday at 1 p.m. And we got to play the game we loved for the whole town (or so it seemed at the time).

During my first varsity game in 1966 (an away game), I scored my first, and as it would turn out my last, varsity touchdown on a dive play up the middle. I played right halfback, and we won 18–0. I could hardly sleep the night before our first home game the following Saturday. Early on, the day turned out to be every bit as exciting as I had anticipated it would be. The weather was perfect, the crowd had gathered, and we felt on top of the world. But like I mentioned before, fate had other plans. My day ended with me in a hospital bed and my football career suddenly over.

Disappointed? Boy, I’ll say I was. I had trouble coming to grips with the fact that I could never play football again. Out the window went any thought I ever had of playing for Ohio State or Notre Dame. Gone were the glory days to be. But like playing the game itself, we learn important lessons when life throws us the proverbial curve ball. Sure, I was upset. I was also grateful for having had the opportunity to do something I truly loved—albeit for less time than I would have wished. And I felt very thankful that my injury wouldn’t prevent me from doing just about anything else I wanted to do—such as playing baseball the following spring.

I was also grateful that I was well enough to attend our last game of the season. The team had lost every Saturday since that fateful second game. But on that final Saturday, November 5, 1966, we triumphed once again. I like to think I had something to do with that. From a wheelchair, I watched the hometown boys win “just one more for this Gipper.” And rooting my team on to victory brought a huge smile to my face.

Tell us about your participation in your favorite sport—how it made you feel, the great plays you made, or season-ending injuries like mine that you may have endured; they’re all important chapters in our book of play. Why not share them with us all at America at Play: Play Stories?

The illustration Kinder-spel or “Children’s play” opens the first chapter in an “emblem book,” Houwelyck, by then-beloved Dutch author Jacob Cats (1577–1660). While the museum’s copy bears a date of 1655, Cats first published it in 1618. The illustration may well be the oldest published and widely circulated image of children at play; and it shows them playing many different ways. Two Flemish painters, Pieter Brueghel and Martin Van Cleve, painted similar scenes of children playing about 100 years earlier, but comparatively few people saw those. Unlike the painters, Jacob Cats published his books, and their popularity lasted through many copies and multiple editions for more than a century.

Poet, politician, and statesman, Jacob Cats earned fame and respect for his published works in 17th- century Holland. Many Europeans collected these instructional emblem books during the 16th and 17th centuries. Books were expensive and rare, and a moral, instructive volume added grace to any civilized person’s library. While other authors penned religious treatises, Cats himself wrote secular, though moralistic, works and used poetic proverbs to interpret the accompanying illustrations. A center for commerce, shipping, and religious tolerance, as well as for subjects such as art and literature, Holland experienced its only “Golden Age” during this period. In this environment, Jacob Cats stood out, a respected man of letters.

The illustration bears the title of the book’s first chapter on a printed banner. Translated as “Out of Children’s Games—Seriousness,” or more literally “From Trifles Seriousness,” the chapter text and the illustration both demonstrate play’s dualities. Cats deserves note for picturing the everyday life of children and especially children at play. By contrast, our Puritan founders (Cats’s contemporaries across the Atlantic in North America) demonstrated little but suspicion of both children and play. So, in one respect, the illustration demonstrates an enlightened and modern perspective—play is worthy of attention—while in another it harnesses play to outcomes. At the same time, Cats conveyed a contradictory message that play only has value because it allows children to rehearse the roles and activities of their adult lives. This line of thinking isn’t extinct; play is still often thought of as an instrumentality, the “work of children.” Americans now tend to see play as rewarding on its own and a pleasurable part of natural child development, a point of view that separates modern play advocates from Cats and his era.

The book’s title, Houwelyck, translates literally as “Housework,” and the volume covers the complete phases of a marriage in six chapters, echoing six stages of a maiden’s life. Cats  used each type of play—and he fit a multitude of activities into his illustration—as an example and a metaphor, in the accompanying text, for some phase of married life for both men and women. For example, the boy playing Blind Man’s Bluff, wearing a blindfold, warns young men to choose a bride with caution. The man on stilts represents “ego” because he walks above others. And the girls playing with kitchen tools indicate proper preparation for motherhood and household management. Overall, the playful illustration and the text serve to remind young people of both the folly and seriousness of married life. Similar messages occupy self-help texts today.

Scholars disagree about the graphic artist who printed this particular version of Kinder-spel. Some different examples of the illustration are signed by Experience Silliman (1611–1653), a painter and engraver from Amsterdam. But Silliman likely made his version based on a design by Adraen van de Venne (1589–1662) who illustrated most of the earlier Cats works. And, because of the great number of editions over a great many years, stylistic differences in various versions of the image abound. But regardless of the artist who made it, Kinder-spel remains one of the earliest images of children at play, and one of the oldest artifacts in the collections at The Strong.