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.

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.

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.

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.

On the recent Memorial Day weekend, my “honey-do” list included fetching our fluffy puppy from the groomer; he’d been overdue for his seasonal trim. Walk-ins flooded the salon because Fido needed to look his best for the backyard barbecue. In the waiting room, I flipped through the day-old newspaper weekend section where I noticed that Saw VI was showing at the second run theaters. (Golly, however had I failed to catch Saw I-V?) Do movie producers, the princes of the “creative class,” really run out of ideas so easily? I went back to drumming my fingers.

It was clear I was going to be cooling my jets for some time, so I helped myself to the courtesy pen that the heartworm pill company had so thoughtfully provided and begged from the receptionist a notepad picturing a dapper Schnauzer under the motto “We cut your Mutts!” Having admired the anonymous scribblers who could pack a 97-minute experience into one sentence, I thought I’d try my hand at inventing fake movie listings.

Since we’re thinking about play and work, here I should confess that my day job sometimes has me writing labels for exhibits—short grabby sentences packed with information. In their way, exhibit labels aren’t so far from movie listings. But hang on before you start thinking what a drudge this guy must be, here’s the playful part, I made this a game by following one rule: each of these new films would be a sequel to two different movies—a hybrid.

In the time it took to present Charlie the Dog, shorn to the skin and looking both lamb-like and sheepish (haircuts embarrass this one), under the heading “Double Sequels” I’d managed to scribble out half-a-dozen titles for comedies, action flicks, science-fiction movies, and costume dramas.

• It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad Max. A group of comedians seeks a buried treasure in post-apocalypse Australia.
• Around the World in Eighty Subs. Zany American and Soviet submarine commanders compete to win a prize for circumnavigating the globe underwater.
• Planet of the Abes. A laboratory chimp’s space capsule lands on a parallel earth where Abraham Lincoln and his clone are co-presidents of Israel.
• Arsenic and Old Mace. An aging detective falls in love with the sisters who euthanized his ex-partner.
• Please Don’t Eat Miss Daisy. An efficiency expert hires a driver who was raised by bears.
• The Nutty Successor. A magician brews a potion that makes him look exactly like the king’s dashing half-brother.

Could any of these be worse than Saw VII?

Of course I had some fun drawing up the list, and some more fun pretending to cast the films with my favorite actors. (Jeff Goldblum would make a great Abe Lincoln.) Since I am not an actor, I won’t be casting myself in these films sure to become American classics (ahem), but since the list now appears on the museum’s Web site as part of this blog, I will be checking with my finance office to see if I should add the hour spent on this to my timesheet. See, at the end of the day there isn’t such a difference between work and play.

The need for questions makes me think about the museum’s collection of so-called china dolls. To be more precise, these dolls have porcelain heads (and sometimes porcelain limbs too) and came from Germany—not China. When the museum’s 700 china dolls were cataloged in the 1970s and 1980s, the curators used the latest means for identification. They knew the porcelain heads came from a thriving ceramic industry in the province of Thuringia. German makers began china-doll production around 1840 and continued until about 1930, but curators often could figure out the approximate age of a doll by its hairdo. Hairstyles changed rapidly in the 19th century, and doll makers often tried to make their dolls appear fashionably up-to-date. Early students of china dolls also noticed the quality of the porcelain itself, the delicacy of the tint in the rosy cheeks, and the similarity in the hand-painted details in the eyes, nose, and mouth. They could group dolls as having come from the same manufacturer by these details but, because most of the dolls had no manufacturers’ marks, the identity of the company itself remained a mystery.

In the years since, curious doll collectors (first cousins to curious curators) kept digging—literally—for more information about German doll makers. One collector in particular found a novel way to gather information about manufacturers and the dolls they made. Mary Gorham Krombholz—part detective and part archeologist—traveled to the sites of old German factories and searched abandoned buildings and grounds for evidence of the companies’ products. In many instances, she found stashes of shards in dumping grounds outside factory buildings. She also uncovered bits of broken and substandard products beneath floorboards within buildings where they were tossed in winter months when the ground outside was too frozen for digging holes and dumping waste. By matching details of her mystery dolls to the shards she found at the factories’ sites, Krombholz successfully identified the manufacturers of many dolls. The books she has written of her travels and her detective work have helped many curious curators and collectors name the manufacturers of their dolls.

At the museum, we are excited by Krombholz’s research and recent findings by other inquisitive doll scholars. We have begun a project to identify the makers of the dolls and to update our records. The work is slow going for now, but as we match dolls and makers, we’ll post the results of our sleuthing to the museum’s Online Collections. Visit the site occasionally, and you can watch our progress.

If you’d like to know more about Mary Gorham Krombholz’s research, look for these three books: German Porcelain Dolls: 1836–2002 (2002); Identifying German Chinas, 1840s–1930s (2004); and The Story of German Doll Making, 1530–2000 (2001). All have the imprint of Hobby House Press, Grantsville, MD.

For a long, long time then, these four words have led us, usually first and most often as children, into a tale about a beautiful place far, far away. Many a fable or folktale has begun with them. The phrase “once upon a time” serves as a useful storytelling convention, which connects readers to places that cannot—or can no longer—be experienced in the flesh.

“Once upon a time” can help us connect to our memories by guiding us back in our minds, in a very personal way, to a past time, period, or experience that we must not let ourselves or others forget. I’d be willing to wager that many of you have used these words in this way, not to tell a fanciful story, but rather as a familiar way to help steer your mind back to a previous time in your lives, when things seemed somehow better—more serene, comfortable, or pleasant.

Like the historical objects that we collect, cherish, preserve, and present here at Strong National Museum of Play, these few words can also help link us directly to our collective past by stimulating our memories. Usually these memories come embellished with romantic notions that alter them somewhat with emotion and imagination. This is a good thing, because it enhances them in personal and transcendental ways. They help us reach a comfortable balance between empirical fact—what really happened—and the experiences we remember.

For instance, I could have easily led off my first two blogs—each of which concerned my indebtedness to my grandparents—with the words “once upon a time.” The memories I have of my grandparents enable me to relive those happy childhood times with them in my mind whenever I wish to; they will always remain entrenched in my adult being. Even at my age, writing those thoughts down evoked heartfelt emotion. And I found myself wondering, did things really happen as I want to remember them? Somehow, it all seems like a fairy tale now. But the reality is they did indeed happen that way; those experiences helped me live happily ever after ever since.

These are the very stories that we must preserve, along with the artifacts that yesterday helped create them, and today help trigger them. For they contain not only fact, color, and drama but—most importantly—our humanity. Our memories link us to each other, to our legacy; however stimulated or embellished, they reflect the emotion of our experience. They enable us to ponder our lives in healthy ways, while helping us maintain a proper perspective on the present and our thoughts of the future.

Soon, the museum will be embarking on a very important project—collecting play histories, the firsthand recollections and stories that will help bring our collections objects to life. This new information will certainly create a deeper dimension to the meaning of play for us all.

So start preparing your favorite tale now. We want to add it to our database. Or should I say, “Play-ta-base?”

The game of goose is an ancient children’s game, possibly tracing its roots all the way back to an ancient Egyptian game called “Mehen,” which was played in early Old Kingdom times (2686–2134 BC). Later, Francesco de Medici of Italy sent a copy of this game to King Felipe II of Spain in the 16th century. The game went on to become one of the most popular games in Europe during that time.

The American goose game in the museum’s collection is based on an English version printed as early as 1831 called “Laurie’s New and Entertaining Game of the Golden Goose.” Our game is nearly an exact duplicate of that English game, except printed in reverse—the British goose faces right while the American version faces left. Our game is dated 1851 and is the only known copy of this game, printed in America, in an American collection today. Needless to say, we’re delighted that an important game collector made this item available to the museum.

The goose game is a classic race game. In fact, all race games invented afterward are derived from it. From Mouse Trap to Monopoly and from Candy Land to Chutes and Ladders, many of our most popular and best-loved games are traced to this simple model. So the museum’s newest game is one of the country’s oldest, and many games we play today are direct descendants of this 150-year-old goose!

I don’t think I ever identified with the Little People as individuals with storylines. Their genders, ages, and races really had no impact on how I played with them. It wasn’t uncommon for me to place a “baby” in the driver’s seat of the family car while the “parents” were relegated to the role of passengers. My biggest interest at the time was determining where the figures would fit, whether that was in a vehicle, on a swing, in a bed, or on a chair.

My Little People play experience was heightened by the numerous play sets that Fisher-Price offered for me between 1973 and 1975. The airport, school house, action garage, and farm were among my favorites. Cars could be refueled, bells could be rung, helicopter blades would spin, and barn doors would emit a realistic “moo” noise when opened. These molded plastic play sets were the perfect place for me to explore various “worldly” environments from the comfort and safety of my living room.

What I didn’t realize until recently is that my little wood and plastic friends weren’t officially marketed and sold as Little People until 1985. Between the late 1950s and 1964, there was no specific name affiliated with these petite removable peg figures. Instead, they were more or less considered accessories for a specific toy. When you bought the Safety School Bus back in 1959, for example, the removable wooden peg figures were just part of the set, not the main attraction.

In 1965, Fisher-Price recognized the marketing potential they had on their hands and began selling the characters and play sets as the “Play Family” line. In 1985, after years of consumers referring to Play Family characters as “those little people,” Fisher-Price officially changed the brand name to Little People to accurately reflect consumer response. Stylistically, Little People underwent major transformations in 1991 and 1997. Contemporary molded-plastic versions of them bear no resemblance to their wooden and plastic predecessors. The Little People’s longevity, however, is a testament to their timelessness.

I recently went into the museum’s storage to check out our collection of Little People and immediately spotted the Play Family Farm. I couldn’t resist the temptation and, when I carefully opened the barn door, the loud “moo” noise echoed and made me feel like a four-year-old again. Thank you, Little People.

Some years ago my daughter’s soccer team traveled to a tournament in Canada’s beautiful capital, Ottawa, to make a brave stand against some of Canada’s fiercest provincial players. Go Rockets! Go Blue! Hope stirred during the first half of a match with the Ontario champs as the Rockets trailed, impossibly, by only one goal. The momentum seemed to break, though, when the referee imposed an obscure (to us) “spirit of the game” penalty. Now hang on. These demure girls gave offense? No way! Spectators who witness boys’ warlike scraps will note how polite the girls’ game is by comparison; girls who knock each other down will invariably apologize—sorreee!

But here was the problem: our players had been coached to relay strategy out loud. “Talk it up, Rockets!” But the moment the striker called out “my ball” to coordinate the attack and spread out the mid-fielders, she ran afoul of the local custom and attracted the linesman’s attention. This was a thoughtful game they played in Canada. During a time-out, the official explained to the puzzled foreigners that since no player could “own” a ball in play, therefore “one can plainly see” that any player “who should call ‘my ball” stood “clearly in violation of the spirit of the game.” I was thinking “sheesh what a moaner.” But, mindful that we were in a land that lay closer to the mother tongue, out loud I said: “Figures, we come to Canada to play and get called for a grammatical error.”

Teams from Quebec (just a few miles away) had traveled to the tournament, too. One of the Quebecois parents there to scout the game overheard the wisecrack and got a big laugh when she translated it for her friends. We soon discovered that the French-Canadians were considerably less circumspect about soccer. Whenever that ref edged nearby, they noisily bothered him with the cheeky nickname “erreur grammaticale.” I had apparently stirred the long-simmering language dispute between English-speaking and francophone Canadians. Or maybe they were just itching for a chance to revive it. (Remember that Quebec at times has had ambitions for a separate nationhood.)

Anyway, before long these natural allies became cross-border fans of the plucky American underdogs. They sent emissaries to later games to disturb the peace with their giant improvised air-horns. “Allez Roquettes! Allez les Bleus!” they shouted. And, during the elimination rounds now without our own team to cheer for, we found their red jerseys and returned the favor, “Allez! Les Rouges!”