As a curator, I’m enthusiastic about every item I acquire for the museum’s collections, but certain acquisitions are definitely more newsworthy than others. I recently had the chance to appear on regional cable TV news, talking about the museum’s latest Monopoly set. The story involves Strong’s acquisition of this historic version of Monopoly—older even than the “tie-box Monopoly” the museum owns from 1933. The Heap Folk Art Monopoly, as it’s known, predates Monopoly “inventor” Charles Darrow’s published version by some 20 years.

Investigations have revealed that the game Monopoly was played in the eastern U.S., especially in Pennsylvania, beginning around 1910. The homemade Monopoly boards of that time were often customized to represent the local creator’s home city. That’s precisely what John Heap did when he produced this wonderful game board representing Altoona, PA. Years later John’s son, Roy Heap, remembered playing the game as a child between 1910 and 1917 and referring to it as “Monopoly.” Childhood memories can be significant and, in this instance, Roy Heap’s memories played an important role in settling a major court case.

The next chapter in our Monopoly takes place in 1975 when Roy Heap provided a deposition for the trial of Professor Ralph Anspach. Anspach had invented a game called Anti-Monopoly that he was marketing. At that time, General Mills owned Parker Brothers and the rights to the game Monopoly. Eager to defend its property, General Mills sued Anspach for trademark infringement over his use of the “Monopoly” name. The legal battle lasted 10 years, during which time Anspach discovered several handmade Monopoly games which predated Darrow’s version, yet were clearly the same game. As noted in a portion of Roy Heap’s deposition, he recalled playing the game as a boy and others testified to playing similar games, thereby supporting Anspach’s claim that Monopoly existed before Charles Darrow and Parker Brothers manufactured their game. Eventually the case made it all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court where Anspach finally triumphed—and won the right to continue selling Anti-Monopoly.

I hope you are as excited as I am that this new—well, more like old—Monopoly game found a home here at the museum. We’re grateful to John W. Heap, the son of Roy Heap, who provided us with a copy of the deposition and photos of his father and grandfather. The museum will preserve the game and all this historical material so future generations can learn about the early stages of what’s undoubtedly the classic American board game.

The summer of 1979 will live on in my childhood memories. At the ripe old age of nine, my neighborhood pals and I were already masters of summer vacation fun. We made numerous trips to the community pool; played innumerable backyard games of tag, hide-and-seek, and red light, green light; and spent countless hours dashing through our lawn sprinklers. We took every opportunity to play outside, where we would remain from dawn until dusk. Mom would call us in when it was time to eat lunch, then again for dinner, and finally, when it was time to call it a night. If we were lucky enough to be allowed to stay out past 9 o’clock, we could usually be found behind my neighbor’s garage, marveling as lightning bugs danced around us.

We had all the outdoor amenities: a jungle gym, croquet sets, softball equipment, Frisbees, tennis and basketball courts nearby, a neighbor with a tire swing in her backyard, and Barbie doll stations set up on our porches that were always ready to be played with in the event of rain. However, sometime during the summer of 1979, we realized we needed something more—a challenge. We needed to build something! Yes, we needed to put our energy and craftsmanship to the test. We decided to construct our own building, a “kids-only” space where we were in charge. After scouring the neighborhood for scrap wood, we formulated a plan to build the best fort we’d ever seen in my backyard. We found the perfect spot behind my garage, a good 30 yards from the house. Once a vegetable garden, it would now serve as our sovereign property.

At nine, we lacked some of the construction and engineering skills necessary to build a level—much less solid—structure, but we did the best that we could. We used the huge pieces of plywood and particleboard of varying lengths and widths that we’d scavenged, and a few two-by-fours with the nails still attached to them from their previous project. We found an old coffee can filled with nails and other hardware in the garage and “borrowed” my father’s hammers for the project. One day, my father came home from work to discover that we were using his tools without his permission. After a brief lecture about asking first, he gave us a hand with the fort. The end result was a structure that resembled a small shanty. With three and a half sides, a flat roof, and a dirt floor, it could easily accommodate about three of us at a time.

We were proud of ourselves for creating this structure. We played in it throughout the summer months, occasionally using it as a space to escape the hot sun and sometimes to eat our lunches. That summer, our fort served as a full-time residence for our Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls. We were convinced that they were happy there.

I knew other kids who had their own play spaces. One friend had an amazing tree house where we used to climb up and read our Battlestar Galactica magazines and Archie comic books. Another friend had a pop-up tent stationed on his lawn that we used as a getaway. One of my cousins had a huge garden shed behind her family’s dairy barn that we claimed as our “house” where we stored old pots and pans that we filled with grass and dirt. Not all of the forts in my life were outdoors, however. My younger brother was always making “indoor” forts using the couch and some chairs, along with blankets draped over the top to create his dwelling. My mother would often find him napping in these impromptu structures.

I have fond memories of all the forts and tree houses that I’ve encountered. To this day, when I see a huge cardboard box my mind goes immediately into “fort-mode,” and I think about what type of structure I could potentially make out of it for my young nephews. Driving through Rochester and its suburbs, I see all types of playhouses and forts, most of them professionally manufactured. I smile whenever I pass by one of them, remembering what it was like to be a kid and have a small place of my own in this big, big world. It was my space, and I liked it that way.

As a kid, my summers included family camping trips, excursions to the amusement park, and Fourth of July fireworks. But those were the landmark events that punctuated the extended freedom of June, July, and August. On a day-to-day basis, my activities centered on the fun we created ourselves. And the location for those activities tended to be the small patch of sun, shade, and lawn in our suburban backyard.

When I was a toddler, my dad built a sandbox in one corner of the backyard. The sandbox became the source of hours of imaginative play—mounding, grading, building, and digging. Did I use shovels and pails? I think so, but the toys I remember best from my sandbox were cast metal toy cars. Today, the few remaining Tootsietoy vehicles in my possession bear testimony to the trials they endured in those sandbox summer days. The cars look like they’ve been sandblasted (I suppose that’s basically what happened), with remnants of their once-shiny paint remaining only in the crevices and grooves of their designs.

Once I’d outgrown the sandbox, our wooden picnic table became the focus for creative backyard play. Depending on how we configured the table and its benches, we had a fort, a houseboat, a log cabin, or even the Batcave where my friends and I could spin extended stories that filled the humid summer afternoons.

Later, when I was too big for pretend play, my sister and I adapted the game of badminton to our backyard and the flimsy badminton set that we got with Top Value trading stamps from the Kroger supermarket. The badminton net was too much trouble to put up for a quick game, so we used the clothesline as a substitute net. And since our racquet skills were limited at best, we abandoned the regulation badminton rules. Instead, our objective was to collaborate on hitting the birdie back and forth as many times as possible, counting out loud as we went. Unpredictable breezes, intruding tree branches, and the neighbor’s barking Chihuahuas all acted as hazards and distractions. It was the rare volley that made it over the count of ten before we bungled the birdie. It was a moment of joint triumph when we reached a monumental figure like fifty.

A scrap wood sandbox filled with sand from the builder’s supply company or a clothesline combined with parts of a badminton set—they hardly seem like inspiring raw materials, but they made for great summer play back then and happy memories today.

They say that the best things in life are free, and that concept definitely applies to my creative endeavors. I’ve always been a scavenger (and hoarder) of craft materials too pretty or unique to pass up. I picked up the habit at summer camp, where I spent as much time as possible on arts and crafts. Half the fun of those projects was in dismantling them later for parts.

My summer-camp electives tended toward program offerings such as ceramics, wearable art, leather crafts, and jewelry making (aside from two swim periods and an hour daily of sports like kickball or Newcomb volleyball—my parents wisely mandated at least that much physical activity). As my instructors introduced each new project, I surveyed with wonder the array of raw materials spread before me on the table: bags of beads and buttons, spools of plastic lace and leather cord, piles of pliable clay. After carefully developing a design and color scheme, I engrossed myself in executing my artistic vision. I carried each treasure home with a sense of awe—had I actually made it with my own hands?

Once the initial inventive reverie wore off, each finished project acquired new meanings and uses. I discovered that the earrings I’d painted looked better mixed and matched, which inspired me to wear socks of alternating colors as well. A hand-woven dreamcatcher moonlighted as a feathery cat-taunter. My beaded jewelry experienced the most drastic effects of secondary use—I couldn’t resist pulling the beads off their strings and employing them in new ways. Seed beads and pony beads seemed replaceable enough, but polymer clay and glass beads were precious. I regularly restrung them alongside new neighbors.

I still collect craft materials for the potential stored within them. Colorful tissue paper and a jar of Mod Podge beckon me to decoupage a wooden shelf I found a few years ago. Yards of quilting squares and grosgrain ribbon with tidy contrast stitching patiently await their turn as gift-wrap. In the stash of multicolored embroidery floss I recently donated to Strong, you can see a cluster of friendship bracelets—works in progress—in one of the compartments. My recycled beads, however, are conspicuously absent from the museum’s collection—I still might use them for something.