Graham Jaehnig

I wanted to build Fort Wilkins when I was a kid, but I didn’t have enough Lincoln Logs. There were only enough in the cardboard can for building something like a one-room box with a green slatted roof. That was okay, because my favorite construction toys were American Plastic Bricks, which were in a large, blue, cardboard canister with a red lid. They were rectangular interlocking, plastic building blocks. The set even included a garage door that actually opened and closed. The windows were engineered to open and close on hinges that interlocked with the bricks. Most of the bricks were red or white, but several were blue and yellow, and a few were clear, which allowed for very tasteful architectural design structures.

The little, green plastic army men, that stood about two and a half inches tall were another favorite. Some were in a kneeling position, aiming a rifle, others were poised with bayoneted rifles over their heads, while others were forever stuck in the position of tossing a hand grenade. I was too young to know the difference between the sets, so World War II army men were frequently paired with Vietnam War soldiers. The clue was the differences in the rifles.

Trying to enact real-world scenarios with all these different toys could be challenging. It required no small amount of imagination to interact American Plastic Bricks with Hot Wheels and Matchbox cars were impossible to size with the toy train. None of the toys were to scale with each other. G.I. Joes, though, were just not doable with other toys. They were a were a foot tall. They were in a world of their own. But, we made do.

My eldest brother, Paul, had a Thingmaker, also known as Creepy Crawlers. Looking back at Paul’s creepy crawlers now, I often wonder if they would have made good fishing lures.

My sister had Liddle Kiddle dolls, along with a carry case in the form of a plastic house called the “Liddle Kiddles Klub.” When opened, it had two beds, a bunk, in a corner, and a little round table in the center. It even had a little plastic wood stove molded into the back wall.

She also had several Barbie dolls. She and her friends often gathered at one house or another to play with them. On cold, winter days, when we were stuck in the house, she could entertain herself for hours with her Spirograph set.

These were just some of the toys we had growing up Jones. Our toys provided hours of fun, but we didn’t know they were developmental. Toys like Lincoln Logs, Bricks and erector sets introduced us to the rudiments of civil and mechanical engineering. Easy Bake Ovens were an introduction to home economics. I had no idea when I was trying to figure out how to get the most building out of my plastic bricks, and still have enough to roof whatever it was I was constructing, I was developing analytical skills I would apply later in life when I went to work on a horse ranch.

Our toys were designed to be shared with friends, which taught us social interaction, cooperation and teamwork. They also taught us how us how to think, design, to create. A lesson I learned very early in my childhood is Hot Wheels cars were not designed for a sandbox, and G.I. Joes were not intended to be slingshot from a clothesline.

Sociologists who have written on the topic say Jonesers are recognized for a distinct creative identity characterized by pragmatism, reinvention, and the mastery of boredom. Pragmatism is defined as a “philosophical tradition and approach that evaluates theories, beliefs, or ideas based on their practical application, success, and real-world consequences rather than abstract theory.” That’s true. Our toys taught us to be creative and pragmatic. We were never bored longer than it took for us to realize we weren’t doing something. We entertained ourselves for hours with what we had at our disposal. Every kid prior to Gen. X remembers using crooked sticks for handguns.

There were very few TV channels, no computers, no video games or other digital entertainment. We entertained ourselves. If we didn’t find creative ways to stay busy, our parents would give us something to do, and we weren’t stupid. Who would rather do chores than play outside or carve a cave into a snowbank? We made do.

According to sociologists, Gen Jones is said to have had nominal parental supervision. While that may be true, it is not entirely accurate. According to the “experts,” minimal supervision arose from the rise of both parents working out of the home and an increase in divorces. I recall only one family in my neighborhood that experienced divorce, and the mom stayed home with and for the kids. I also recall that our moms didn’t have to know our exact whereabouts at all times, because all the moms in the neighborhood knew each other, and we were usually either in our yard with our friends, or with our friends in their yards. Moms just seemed to know where we were. They certainly knew if we broke some rule, often before we got home. We heard about it – loudly. “Wait until your father gets home!”

Growing up Jones, we enjoyed a sense of security the later Latchkey kids didn’t. We lived in the last days when mom was home and it was safe to wander our neighborhoods. We were the last generation to grow up without personal computers, cell phones or mountain bikes. We felt safe walking to school and back; we felt safe in our classrooms.

Being a kid in the Jones era was kind of like taking a long family road trip. We felt safe in the backseat, falling asleep knowing mom and dad were up front, in control, protecting us and making sure everything was okay. This was growing up Jones.