A TIME FOR CHRISTMAS LISTS
Thanksgiving behind us, and Advent and Christmas ahead, it was time to give Mom and Dad our Christmas lists.
Some of my friends started theirs during the summer, so by early December, they had pages of must-haves in haphazard order. We were more organized than that.
We accumulated ideas, of course, but the list-making began with the first of the Christmas (toy) catalogs—JC Penney’s, Sears, and Montgomery Wards. We pored over the toy section, studying pictures and descriptions as we imagined owning the treasures.
My personal favorite Christmas catalog was Penney’s, probably because we ordered from their catalogs year round and drove to Miracle Mile shopping center on Telegraph for pick-ups.
During the year, I associated Sears with tools, (and years later, my sister Janet ordered her chicks from Sears). Wards was last on my list, but no less welcome.
Each of us had our favorite sections and pages—erector sets, Lincoln Logs, play store pieces, games and puzzles. Even studied the winter pajama section. I nearly wore the color off the page in 1960 when Marx offered the Flintstone set to celebrate the new weekly cartoon. I could taste the excitement of playing with it and inhaled the picture.
One year my brother Steve asked only for Mr. Machine— “Here he comes, here he comes, the greatest toy you’ve ever seen, and his name is Mister Machine,” the plastic wind-up robot with visible gears. Santa brought him, Steve wound him up, the thing took two steps and ground to a halt, never to work again. Devastation!
After that, Mom and Dad gave us Christmas list rules. If it was advertised on TV, we couldn’t ask for it at Christmastime. We didn’t kick too hard. Steve’s anguish had been too real. Of course, we’d try to add something we “really, really wanted” that was advertised on TV, hoping Mom and Dad wouldn’t notice.
They always did.
The rule was successful over the years because you chose toys you really, really wanted, and not because the ads were enticing. We played with them more often and they lasted longer.
One year, our daughter Anne “really, really” wanted the popular crawling baby doll—Matel’s Baby-that-away—and insisted that’s all she wanted. She also announced that she’d ask Santa for it because he wouldn’t tell her no.
In desperation, I took her to Hudson’s and asked to see the doll. Anne was so excited.
Until the hard-bodied, loud-motored toy growled its way across the counter. She tried to like it. She tried to hug it. Instead, she burst into tears and gave it back.
After that, we stuck to the “no TV commercial” toys for Christmas.
By mid-December, we Russell kids had narrowed each list to our top three. In deciding, I wrote and erased until my notebook paper was threadbare. My brothers kept handing in revised editions.
But on Christmas morning, after Dad started our annual invitation to rush downstairs to the first song, “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing” from The Glorious Sound of Christmas (Eugene Ormandy, The Philadelphia Orchestra, Temple University Concert Choir), our favorite Christmas album, our top three choices would be wrapped and ready.
Number One would be wrapped in unique paper with “From Santa” on the tag. How Mom and Dad managed every year with six children is a mystery, but my memories of those Christmas years sparkle.
You can buy old Sears, Penney’s, and Wards Christmas catalogues on eBay, Amazon, and other sources, from $30 to over $100. Imagine. Ours came free--pristine, colorful, brimming with possibilities.
It’s amusing to see those prices now, but that was a different time. And nothing can reproduce the thrill of receiving each catalog in the mail.
Or the competition of being the first to pore through the pages, our notebook paper ready to include catalog name and page.
We left nothing to chance.
I still leaf through any Christmas catalog with pleasure, but the enchantment is diluted. Maybe not for our grandchildren, although they’d probably be lost without commercials.
Let’s hear it for toys that need no advertisement.
(To wrap Lego sets of any size for them, however, refinancing may be necessary.)
Some of my friends started theirs during the summer, so by early December, they had pages of must-haves in haphazard order. We were more organized than that.
We accumulated ideas, of course, but the list-making began with the first of the Christmas (toy) catalogs—JC Penney’s, Sears, and Montgomery Wards. We pored over the toy section, studying pictures and descriptions as we imagined owning the treasures.
My personal favorite Christmas catalog was Penney’s, probably because we ordered from their catalogs year round and drove to Miracle Mile shopping center on Telegraph for pick-ups.
During the year, I associated Sears with tools, (and years later, my sister Janet ordered her chicks from Sears). Wards was last on my list, but no less welcome.
Each of us had our favorite sections and pages—erector sets, Lincoln Logs, play store pieces, games and puzzles. Even studied the winter pajama section. I nearly wore the color off the page in 1960 when Marx offered the Flintstone set to celebrate the new weekly cartoon. I could taste the excitement of playing with it and inhaled the picture.
One year my brother Steve asked only for Mr. Machine— “Here he comes, here he comes, the greatest toy you’ve ever seen, and his name is Mister Machine,” the plastic wind-up robot with visible gears. Santa brought him, Steve wound him up, the thing took two steps and ground to a halt, never to work again. Devastation!
After that, Mom and Dad gave us Christmas list rules. If it was advertised on TV, we couldn’t ask for it at Christmastime. We didn’t kick too hard. Steve’s anguish had been too real. Of course, we’d try to add something we “really, really wanted” that was advertised on TV, hoping Mom and Dad wouldn’t notice.
They always did.
The rule was successful over the years because you chose toys you really, really wanted, and not because the ads were enticing. We played with them more often and they lasted longer.
One year, our daughter Anne “really, really” wanted the popular crawling baby doll—Matel’s Baby-that-away—and insisted that’s all she wanted. She also announced that she’d ask Santa for it because he wouldn’t tell her no.
In desperation, I took her to Hudson’s and asked to see the doll. Anne was so excited.
Until the hard-bodied, loud-motored toy growled its way across the counter. She tried to like it. She tried to hug it. Instead, she burst into tears and gave it back.
After that, we stuck to the “no TV commercial” toys for Christmas.
By mid-December, we Russell kids had narrowed each list to our top three. In deciding, I wrote and erased until my notebook paper was threadbare. My brothers kept handing in revised editions.
But on Christmas morning, after Dad started our annual invitation to rush downstairs to the first song, “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing” from The Glorious Sound of Christmas (Eugene Ormandy, The Philadelphia Orchestra, Temple University Concert Choir), our favorite Christmas album, our top three choices would be wrapped and ready.
Number One would be wrapped in unique paper with “From Santa” on the tag. How Mom and Dad managed every year with six children is a mystery, but my memories of those Christmas years sparkle.
You can buy old Sears, Penney’s, and Wards Christmas catalogues on eBay, Amazon, and other sources, from $30 to over $100. Imagine. Ours came free--pristine, colorful, brimming with possibilities.
It’s amusing to see those prices now, but that was a different time. And nothing can reproduce the thrill of receiving each catalog in the mail.
Or the competition of being the first to pore through the pages, our notebook paper ready to include catalog name and page.
We left nothing to chance.
I still leaf through any Christmas catalog with pleasure, but the enchantment is diluted. Maybe not for our grandchildren, although they’d probably be lost without commercials.
Let’s hear it for toys that need no advertisement.
(To wrap Lego sets of any size for them, however, refinancing may be necessary.)
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