Work and play aren’t opposites, far from it. Here’s a story about how it’s sometimes hard to see the difference between a task and a pastime.

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.

I don’t know that the words curator and curious come from a common root word, but I’ve noticed that most curators—like inquisitive three-year-olds—persistently ask questions. Even curators who’ve done thorough research keep on asking questions about their subject matter. And that’s the way things should be because researchers, historians, and collectors uncover new information all the time.

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.

These familiar words have been used, in some form, through centuries of storytelling. The Oxford English Dictionary notes that the phrase dates to at least 1380, while Wikipedia states that “it seems to have become a widely accepted convention for opening oral narratives by around 1600.”

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?”

Strong recently acquired a very rare and important board game—“The Jolly Game of Goose.” The game is printed on paper with old, yellowed tape on its folds. It is a prime candidate for intensive conservation (restoration) treatment. But why is it so important to the museum?

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!