Kids and television go back a long way. Although World War II had interrupted television’s development, the new medium took off in earnest soon afterward. Commercial TV rapidly emerged as more 7½ by 10-inch screens found their way into homes and advertisers realized that kids made an ideal audience.

The St. Louis-based Brown Shoe Company ranked as an early believer in television’s marketing potential and sponsored its own half-hour show, Smilin’ Ed’s Buster Brown Gang. Smilin’ Ed made the successful transition from radio to the new medium with his cast of crudely-made puppets—Froggy the Gremlin, Squeaky the Mouse, and Midnight the Cat—and the new show premiered on November 21, 1949. Soon, in addition to shoes, they began hawking comic books and other licensed products. The Brian Sutton-Smith Library and Archives of Play at The Strong holds one of those Buster Brown comic books. Issue No. 37’s Christmas Fun feature story illustrates the three main characters up to their usual shenanigans.

Other great shows for kids appeared nationally at this time—The Howdy Doody Show (1947–1960) with Buffalo Bob Smith; Ding Dong School (1952–1956); and Romper Room (1953–1994) to name a few. The new medium required much less of the imagination but delivered much more to an intrigued and eager audience. These early shows gradually introduced children everywhere not only to the new medium of television, but also to a new form of learning, one that rather successfully combined comedic content with serious intent and with interactivity. Mixing education with entertainment, viewers learned a valuable lesson about government when Howdy ran for President of the Kids of America in 1948.

Growing up in the 1950s, these early shows had a huge impact on my life. One of my fondest childhood memories involved watching Froggy with my fellow patients in the kid’s recovery room of the hospital while I soothed my freshly-detonsilled throat with ice cream. Froggy’s antics, coupled with the cool dessert, were the treats I needed to take away that sting!

Many years later in 1982, the song “Froggy’s Lament” appeared on an album of video game songs by Buckner & Garcia entitled Pac-Man Fever, recalling the amphibian cutup. And, in his 2006 memoir Before You Leap, Kermit the Frog paid a tribute to Froggy, calling him “one of the only on-screen amphibian stars.”

One lesser television production, Freihofer’s Breadtime Stories, was produced and broadcast only in Schenectady, New York, where television was invented. Freihofer’s Bakery sponsored this daily, 15-minute show. A high point of my early years came on June 27, 1955 when, for my sister’s fifth birthday, our parents gave us and two cousins tickets to the show. There, on the set in WRGB’s Channel 6 studios (the only station in town at that time), each of us took a seat on the bleachers—behind the birthday cake display and in front of the cameras—and received fruit cookies to munch on. My biggest thrill occurred when the host, “Bud” Mason, called on me to make the day’s “squiggle,” a random crayon mark that he would immediately transform into a finished drawing. I sprang from my seat in the peanut gallery, approached the side of the huge bread truck in the studio, stepped up to the oversized drawing pad, and made my mark. I couldn’t believe that he had chosen me!

I realize that kids today probably don’t feel the same fondness that I do for 1950s television stars like Froggy the Gremlin and wouldn’t be dazzled by the primitive production values of Breadtime Stories. New generations have their own favorites like Dora the Explorer or SpongeBob SquarePants and their own television memories. Whatever your age, we need to stay mindful of our playful experiences and the wonderful memories they generate. Why not share them with the National Museum of Play’s project to collect Play Stories. Tell us about any similar experiences you had growing up, especially those that were extra special. We’ll be smiling right along with you.

Nostalgia is a powerful thing. I’ve witnessed countless National Museum of Play guests smiling brightly as they point to an object in a display case, enthusiastically telling their friends, “Look! I had that!” My brother, a child of the 1970s, visited the museum this past winter with his wife and two children. I watched as my brother stood captivated in front of a display of vintage Star Wars toys and action figures. Smiling and holding his infant son, he delighted in telling me which toys he had as a child, pointing to his favorites, and noting those that he still owns, now stored in boxes in his home.

As a member of the Collections Team, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t experience the same sort of nostalgia myself. It happens on a regular basis. I grew up during the 1980s, a time some of us regard as a golden age for toys and cartoons. As a little girl, My Little Pony and Strawberry Shortcake playthings littered the floor of my bedroom. My favorite Pony figure wasn’t exactly a pony so much as a seahorse, but it went missing long ago. Much to my surprise, one day last year, I discovered that very seahorse in a display case on the museum’s second floor. Even now, I can’t help but grin every time I walk by it. The Strawberry Shortcake characters in the 1980s case of TimeLab have a similar effect; one look and I’m certain I can smell those fruit-scented vinyl dolls through the glass.

I’ve noticed many characters from the 1980s, such as Care Bears, Transformers, My Little Pony, and Strawberry Shortcake, seem to have experienced rejuvenation. Some characters have returned to television, and a few (such as Transformers) have received the Hollywood treatment in full-length motion pictures. I wonder how much the action-packed blockbuster owes to enthusiastic, nostalgic adults who loved the 1980s cartoon as children and lined up to see their favorite character (Optimus Prime!) on the big screen.

While the aesthetics of some of these characters have changed—compare the sweet, gentle faces of 1980’s My Little Pony figures to the slender, sparkly-eyed versions currently lining toy store shelves and you’ll see what I mean—their longevity speaks to their appeal to both youngsters and the adults who once cherished them. Now a new generation of children has the chance to meet the characters many of us already know and love, and young parents enjoy the opportunity to revisit their own youth as they share memories and create new ones, playing alongside their children.

The return of our favorite characters feels a bit like reconnecting with old friends. I’m thrilled to buy these toys for my favorite kids in the hopes that they will have similar, happy experiences—and that they will, of course, ask me to play along.

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.

We spend a lot of time talking about the way the media portrays women—how images of svelte, scantily-clad models on New York City’s sky-high billboards affect us mere mortals below, for instance. The struggle with body image and beauty standards begins at a very young age for girls, often with toys like Barbie, the beautiful doll who stares mockingly up at everyone unfortunate enough to be made of something other than flawless plastic. But this comprises only a small part of the conversation. What about the ways that toys portray men? Recently, while cataloging The Strong’s collection of early-20th century dolls made by the A. Schoenhut Company, it occurred to me that, although we clearly separate “boy toys” from “girl toys,” both groups include male figures. The Schoenhut dolls, for instance, depict boys and girls. However, the dolls, traditionally a girl toy, present a very different image of masculinity than many boy toys.

Among the boy toys, G.I. Joe cuts a lean but muscular figure, comes clad in a sea of camouflage, and participates in only the most rugged and dangerous adventures. The soldier, who made his debut in the 1960s as a boy’s alternative to Barbie, comes well-equipped for all sorts of combat situations. Like Barbie, G.I. Joe has all the accessories he needs—though he comes with hand grenades and assault rifles rather than high heels and hairbrushes. Though his career took a beating when the Vietnam War raised parental concerns about toys that encourage violence, G.I. Joe coped well, turning instead to other masculine pursuits, such as hunting and the martial arts. If Barbie celebrates consumerism and feminine beauty, then G.I. Joe promotes an active and adventurous lifestyle for boys. Other boy toys portray masculinity in the same way. If G.I. Joe conveys the message that men should be aggressive and athletic, the sneering, muscle-bound He-Man action figure pile drives that message into the ground.

The sociological concept of gender socialization offers some insight. According to the theory, gendered toys help children develop their identity as males or females and understand the societal norms attached to their gender. Often, boys will latch on to the rugged version of masculinity they see portrayed in their own toys and reject all things “girly” (think cooties), including Barbie and her beau. Adults tend to perpetuate this aversion by encouraging children to play exclusively with gender appropriate toys. Meanwhile, girls learn the rules of femininity from Barbie. But what do they learn from Ken? It seems to me that he might generate some unrealistic expectations about men and relationships, a set of expectations bolstered by Disney-style fairy tales and romantic comedies. Perhaps Ken’s portrayal of masculinity deepens the divide between genders by creating a distinctly softened, feminine masculinity that boys shun because it contrasts so starkly with the version presented in toys meant for boys. For my part, I hope there will come a day when girls and boys play with the same, gender-neutral toys that won’t urge them to conform to any one standard. But, just as I know better than to wait for a perfectly-coiffed, life-size Ken to salsa dance his way into my life, I’m not going to hold my breath.

Perhaps kids don’t ruminate about the origin of toys as they might about a newborn sibling, but toys do come from somewhere. Toy inventors dream new ones up all the time, to the delight of kids everywhere. The National Museum of Play’s collections include toy prototypes and design papers from a number of toy inventors like Greg Hyman, creator of popular toys such as Alphie, Talking Barney, and Tickle Me Elmo. How Hyman became a toy inventor shows us that play, indeed, nurtures creativity, imagination, and originality.

Knowing something of Hyman’s youthful experiences, you might think that, of course, he became a toy inventor. As a fourth grader in the 1950s, he offered his classmates lessons in invention: “Learn to invent, learn all about electricity, how electric motors work. . . . There will be lessons every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Three lessons FREE! . . . Yours truly, Greg the Inventor.” At 11 years old, Hyman sold “Rocket Ship” rides in a converted washing machine with a baby carriage cockpit. At age 16, Hyman cofounded a business installing home burglar alarms. Before he headed off to college for a degree in electrical engineering, Hyman applied his creativity, skills, and entrepreneurial bent to fitting a four-foot-high, Navy-surplus practice bomb with a CB walkie-talkie. He intended to rent his Talking Bomb to stores and theaters for street advertising. Local police thwarted his plans for making a fortune, however, when they threatened to arrest him and confiscate his invention.

Fresh out of college, Hyman built customized electronic devices for advertising and public relations firms and for television game-show presentations. By 1974 Hyman had partnered with Larry Greenberg, a man he had met in television work. They started their own firm, Hyman/Greenberg Associates, and developed toy ideas to pitch to manufacturers. Because no manufacturers licensed any of their electronic toys for several years, the two inventors needed to keep “real jobs,” as Hyman described them.

In 1977 the men’s luck improved. Creative Playthings manufactured the pair’s first toy, Little Maestro Piano Organ, and Milton Bradley signed Hyman and Greenberg to contracts that paid advances against future toy ideas. Finally, the two could turn to toy design full-time. Playskool introduced their first big success, Alphie the Robot, whose lights, sounds, music, action, and games helped youngsters learn letters, numbers, songs, and more. Additional card sets varied Alphie’s lessons and activities. Alphie went through seven versions; the latest arrived in 2010, just in time for kids who grew up with Alphie in the 1970s to purchase the new and improved Alphie for their own children.

Hyman and Greenberg licensed 40 toys together before Greenberg passed away in 1992. Their inventions include Major Morgan the Electronic Organ, an electronic musical phone, a Win, Lose, or Draw game, and the Big Blaster Electronic Bike Horn. In the 1990s and after, Hyman continued inventing toys on his own or with other inventors.

In 1993 Playskool released Hyman’s plush, purple Talking Barney, the popular dinosaur from the PBS series. Around the same time, Hyman began collaborating with Ron Dubren, another toy inventor, on an electronic toy that laughed and squirmed when its tummy was tickled. They pitched Tickles the Monkey to Tyco, which had, at that time, the license to produce toys based on Looney Tunes characters. Tyco planned to turn the concept into a Tasmanian Devil toy called Tickle Me Taz. Time passed, however, and Tyco’s Looney Tunes license lapsed. In the meantime, the company acquired the right to produce toys using Sesame Street characters. Tyco saw Elmo, the fluffy, red, three-year-old, as a perfect match for the Tickles toy. Tickle Me Elmo became the must-have toy of the 1996 holiday season, and numerous variations of the toy have been in production ever since.

Tickle Me Elmo leads the list of Greg Hyman’s best-known toys, but the plush toy coexists in his portfolio with more than 120 other licensed toys. As Hyman told a journalist, “To be an inventor is an honor. This country was founded on invention. There are no courses you can take to do this.” But, maybe you can get your start by taking lessons from Greg the Inventor.

From a ravenous wolf that swallows a little girl whole to a lumberjack who cuts the wolf open, many versions of Little Red Riding Hood contain literary and visual images that leave readers unsettled. One tale of a controversial Little Red Riding Hood illustration begins with Little Golden Book’s editor Lucille Olge’s pursuit of illustrator and Caldecott Medalist Elizabeth Orton Jones during an American Library Association Annual Conference in the 1940s. Each morning during breakfast at the upscale Waldorf-Astoria, Jones found a note from Olge on her silver breakfast tray. Charmed by the editor’s compliments and persistence, Jones agreed to meet and, before the conference ended, she signed on to illustrate a Little Golden Book title of her choosing. In 1949, Olge published Little Red Riding Hood with the resulting pictures. As with most tales about Red Riding Hood, this one contains a twist. In Jones’ final illustration, Little Red Riding Hood (a small girl with blonde braids and a blue dress) held up a tiny tasting glass of red wine. Soon, Olge received hundreds of letters from outraged members of The Woman’s Christian Temperance Union. Despite the furor, the illustration remained.

The Little Golden Book copy of Little Red Riding Hood in The Strong’s collections reveals another concern—that of the ravenous wolf. The controversial image of Little Red Riding Hood with her wine remains untouched. However, the adjacent text displays edits of an apprehensive guardian. The grandmother who gifted this copy to her grandchildren took it upon herself to cross out with black ink any word that might scare the young readers. Thus, when Little Red Riding Hood comments on the wolf’s large eyes, the text reads, “‘The better to see you with, my dear,’ said the wolf, snapping his jaws.” And when she comments on his large teeth, he says, “‘The better to EAT you with!’  And then the wolf sprang from his bed and ate Little Red Riding Hood up….” And did what, I wonder? It’s not uncommon for adults to bark at any tale that might glorify violence, celebrate cunning, and inflame imaginations. I imagine that Grandma enjoyed filling in the blanks.

When I asked colleagues and friends about their impressions of Little Golden Books’ Little Red Riding Hood, they responded, “I never noticed the wine glass,” but, “I adored the illustrations,” or “I prefer the Brothers Grimm version.” Working with the nearly 2,400 titles in the Brian Sutton-Smith Library and Archives of Play collection led me to appreciate the moral values that Little Golden Books reflect, but I could also see how they relate to gender, art, political and economical contingencies, and the publishing industry. Next time you visit the National Museum of Play, I hope you check out Big Ideas: Little Golden Books on the ramp in Reading Adventureland.

Consider a time before Johannes Gutenberg’s 1440 invention of the printing press. Books belonged to an elite few and literacy itself was uncommon. Although the printing press loosened the restraints on book publishing, it took another 400 years before the invention of the steam-powered rotary printing press unleashed the mass production of printed works. Imagine being a child in the 1700s or early 1800s—what books might you have access to? Would your imagination be captured by a book from 1778 titled Youth’s instructive and entertaining story-teller: being a choice collection of moral tales, chiefly deduced from real life, calculated to enforce the practice of virtue, and expand every social idea in the human heart ; adorned with emblematical cuts, from the most interesting part of each tale, and methodized after the plan recommended by the late ingenious Dr. Goldsmith; to which is added, by way of preface, Thoughts on the present mode of education? Or perhaps you would enjoy The instructive history of industry and sloth. Some of these early books were illustrated with simple woodcuts or engravings which made them even more appealing such as Accidents of childhood, or Cautionary stories for heedless children, with twenty illustrations by J. D. Watson, engraved by the Brothers Dalziel. Perhaps “enjoy” is not the word that immediately comes to mind which is fitting since “enjoyment” was not the primary objective of these books. Children were not meant to be entertained, they were meant to be schooled. [You can find out more about these books and many more in the Online Catalog of the Brian Sutton-Smith Library and Archives of Play at The Strong.]

Fortunately for the child in all of us, new printing technology brought new choices. The steam-powered printing press made books available at a relatively low cost, and the introduction of chromolithography in the mid-1800s would soon illuminate children’s books. Authors, illustrators, and publishers alike found themselves inspired to create books that were not only instructive but highly appealing to young minds. Fables, nursery rhymes, and fairy tales delighted young and old alike. McLoughlin Brothers of New York emerged as the foremost producer of inexpensive picture and story books, books that could make something as necessary as learning the alphabet fun. McLoughlin Brothers also turned its book illustrations into board games, puzzles, and paper dolls.

Transcending color, publishers also began to experiment with the concept of “toy books” with moving pictures and transformations, as well as other novelties such as tunnel books and pop-up books. Among pop-up books, Lothar Meggendorfer and Ernest Nister produced some of the best and most treasured examples. My own favorite is Nister’s The Children’s Tableaux. Pop-up books continue to appeal to talented contemporary artists, such as Robert Sabuda who uses their three dimensions to give new life to old stories such as Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.

When The Strong decided to create an exhibit about the history of children’s books, one of the first steps involved meeting with groups of schoolchildren and asking them what they would want in such an exhibit. All agreed that it should feel like a giant pop-up book. With that directive in mind, Reading Adventureland developed as a multidimensional space where you’re the main character in your very own story. While at the National Museum of Play at The Strong, you can also visit The Wizard of Oz and Berenstain Bears exhibits—colorful museum spaces also based on books. And, if you look around, you’ll discover throughout the museum there are books, books, and more books that you can sign out from the Grada Hopeman Gelser Library using your Monroe County library card. After all, nothing is better than curling up with a good book!

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.

Toys and games inducted into the National Toy Hall of Fame at The Strong have to meet three key criteria. First, they have to demonstrate their enduring qualities with significant longevity. Second, they need to promote play that encourages creativity, learning, and discovery. And, finally, they need to be widely recognized, a quality I sometimes describe as “iconic.” So when a political staffer wanted to create an immediately familiar image of starting over, he turned to Etch A Sketch. Bingo—icon status proved! Given that Romney’s competitors and television news anchors everywhere could immediately brandish their own Etch A Sketches, that shows how the toy has remained popular and available long after its sensational debut way back in 1960. Creativity? Etch A Sketch has it in spades.

Much as I loved drawing when I was a kid, I never mastered the Etch A Sketch. Everything I tried to illustrate turned out to look like a geometry textbook diagram (Is that a rhombus?) or like an outline of the state of Texas. So I probably wouldn’t choose the Etch A Sketch as my personal favorite among the 49 classic toys in the National Toy Hall of Fame. But I can hold out hope that the 2012 political season will produce more toy analogies that bring the discussion back to the National Toy Hall of Fame. A candidate like a jack-in-the-box? Gas prices like a kite? The economy like a Hula Hoop? My message to politicians and spokespeople nationwide: Etch A Sketch has been used but you have 48 more National Toy Hall of Fame inductees ready to fit your metaphor.

One way is through donation. And some of my favorite donations include stories about who played the game and what that experience involved. For example, the museum received a Monopoly game that the donor used during the 1970s. Pretty average, right? But her brother and a friend wrote the dates and details about each game they played—a sort of game diary—inside the game box insert. I think of it as their personalized version of the player rankings on a video game. A different type of story came with a copy of Trump, The Game, from 1989. Its donor recalled that his family attempted to play the game only once, but they found it “impossible to figure out.” He kept the game but he felt it embodied “the excesses of the 1980s.” Not something The Donald would like to hear, but a personal perspective that makes the game more meaningful to The Strong.

Besides accepting donations, the museum also purchases artifacts. Sometimes, vendors approach us with items they hope we’ll buy. More often, we seek out specific examples to use in upcoming exhibits. Frequently, we browse online auction sites such as eBay. Although very few playthings listed there come with any personalized history of use, eBay can’t be beat for offering the widest number of options. For instance, when we needed The Beatles’ Flip Your Wig Game for a 2001 exhibition on the Fab Four, we found it on eBay. The game now lives in a 1960s playthings case on the museum’s second floor.

Once in a great while, the museum’s curators attend a toy auction. At these events, the curators peruse important, milestone toys from legendary collections and try to win the bidding for artifacts that address particular collecting objectives for the museum. Such was the case when The Strong purchased the Charles Darrow round Monopoly set at Sotheby’s 2010 auction of Malcolm Forbes’s Monopoly games. Darrow and his family used this actual game board, and this round set served as a prototype for the square Monopoly games Darrow later produced before selling Monopoly to Parker Brothers.

I’ll confess, I felt excited and nervous just to be at Sotheby’s that day, face-to-face with the ultimate iconic Monopoly set. The National Toy Hall of Fame inducted Monopoly in 1998, a fitting recognition of its status as the world’s most popular board game. So I was thrilled to do my part in making sure that Charles Darrow’s personal game—the game that started the world’s Monopoly craze—is housed at The Strong, home to the world’s most comprehensive collection of toys, dolls, and games. And now both personal stories about milestone Monopoly games, as well as the unexpected history behind the famous real estate game, are told in Monopoly: An American Icon, a new exhibit on the museum’s second floor. I hope you’ll check it out soon.