Family history embedded in toys

We all have "accidental" family history albums. Family history which is not carefully pasted in a book - but which has become embedded in experiences and things that come up on us by accident. Like old toys maybe.

The flood in my kitchen that I mentioned a few weeks back prompted me to do a spot of spring cleaning. So I put aside family history for a morning and got to work. You know how that goes. You get started and then it's hard to stop - not because it's so much fun - but because there is no clear stopping point! Every cupboard that you clean stands as a reproach to the dusty, cluttered other ones that you haven't touched. Even in other rooms.

So I eventually got to the kids' closets and surveyed all the dear, dear detritus of their childhood. Boy, that's an emotional tsunami - each shelf an accident family history album; each cupboard a library. Soft toys, bouncy balls, plastic binoculars, Lego sets (times 20), Halloween costumes, traveling chess sets, Star Wars Monopoly and on and on it goes.

I picked up the teddy bear that one of my boys couldn't sleep without - for five years at least. It went everywhere with us. One tragic day we left it in another city. The feelings of loss and despair that we all felt when we realized it had not made the trip back hit us like a punch in the gut (well, the boy and his parents felt the hit - his brothers didn't appear too troubled). Happily, a kind person mailed him back to us. But those three days waiting for the bear to return were the longest three days in my sons' short life to that point.

So the bear stays in the picture. Too much family history wrapped up in his po-face.

Then there are those painted wooden boats that my husband brought back from a business trip when the kids were still very young (and he was much younger himself!). What a terrible present they were! Too delicate to be taken out on rainy days to float in the rivers along the curb, they stayed on a shelf in the boys' bedroom for years gathering dust. But year after year whenever I was in their room I noticed them - looking bright and cheerful, and completely ignored by their owners. Oddly, those boats evoke my small-child days in a way few other things do.

So the boats aren't going anywhere either.

And what about the Christening blanket that my mother-in-law knitted and that I used with all my children. I couldn't even guess at the names of the intricate stitches she used to get the gorgeous pattern that it has. (Before she died she also knitted endless woolen sweaters that, now living in California, we wear once or twice a year if we are lucky - or "unlucky" perhaps). Just holding it up in my hands brings back family history memories of her sitting in her chair, knitting needles clicking away connecting her ever growing garment with the ball of colored wool hidden in the knitting bag by her chair.

I am not giving away the Christening blanket. (Well, not until I hand it over to a future daughter-in-law who I can rely on to value it like I do.)

Oh look! The possum and platypus glove puppets!! We used to laugh and laugh inventing voices and games for them. And what about the (fake) skunk skin hat? The fossil collection? Thomas the Tank Engine? The home-made swords and shields? The boxing gloves? The skateboards? Buzz and Woody (from the first movie)? They must be a collector's item, almost (except that Woody's string was long ago scissored off).

Nope, they can't go either. Each of those items is steeped in family history.

And then I notice a whole new category of childhood artifact: The school project. There could hardly be family history wrapped up in a school project, surely.

Hmmm. In our house "school project" means two Christopher Columbus's ships - made from cardboard, copious amounts of felt pen, and close to 50 hours of combined child and parent toil, sweat and tears . It means ancient Greek helmets made from papier-mâché slathered over balloons and decorated with brown enamels. It means book reports on famous people whose covers had to reflect an aspect of the life (Genghis Khan's shield, Teddy Roosevelt's bear, Captain Cook's map of the Pacific).

Each school project was an epic creation that transfixed the house and monopolized our attention for weeks. You can't give that kind of stuff away. And I am sure not ready to throw it all away.

Don't even get me started on their artwork. Or the book of cartoons they drew one summer when they were 7 or so then got my husband to create dozens of photocopies at the office so they could sell them to their friends. Or the signs they made for lemonade stands. Or the journals I occasionally made them write when we traveled (what a struggle that was - the boys' enthusiasm for the task reflected in their spelling barely a single word properly).

What about the books we read together? Each cover (well, many of them anyway) brings back another page in our accidental family history album.

My husband has no such separation issues. He has the pleasure of accidental family history every time he goes in the garage. Because he still has the kids' fishing rods and their baseball gloves and the basketballs and the footballs all sitting in the ball box where they have always lived - and probably always will.

It occurs to me that one solution might be to digitize this family history. Take photos of every item and place them into a real family history album. It may not be as good as smelling that old bear, and feeling the soft texture of his fur, but it would be better than an empty cupboard and a challenged memory.

What do other people do with all this family history embedded in toys? Keep them forever?

That's what I plan to do. I'm keeping these toys forever. For me - not the kids. Cleaning season is over.


Jane Lehmann-Shafron co-founded Your Story Here Video Biography, a documentary production company that specializes in video biography and family history documentary. Based in Orange County CA, her award-winning films have been featured in festivals in the United States and Canada. She can be contacted on 949 742-2755 or through her website.