“The difference between men and boys is the price of their toys.“
— Malcolm S. Forbes, publisher of Forbes magazine.
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That oft quoted old saying crossed my mind last week as I watched classic cars and their owners wrap up another successful car show in Center.
For as far back as I can remember, loud, fast, and cool cars have “spoken to me.” And I’ve always listened.
But admiring the polished, powerful machines as toys last week made me think about a different kind of plaything—not the automotive classics in my garage, but the fragile relics whispering from my living room curio cabinet. Survivors from the “Depressing Decades” of the Great Depression, specifically a swivel-jointed wooden toy snake and a Fisher-Price “Pop-Up Kritter” Pluto.
My father, born in 1923, played with both, dating them to the 1930s. In the mid-1950s, my grandmother pulled them from the bottom drawer of her chifferobe to entertain me. Looking at them today, these toys stand in stark contrast to the brightly lit, big-box store toy aisle offerings—a transition that represents far more than a shift in materials. They completely rewrite why we play.
If you had money during the Great Depression, you found that “why” in the first Sears Christmas catalog, published in 1933. It tempted families with “Miss Pigtails” dolls, cast metal toy cars, Mickey Mouse watches, Lionel electric trains, and—are you ready? Live singing canaries.
But my father’s wooden toy snake never appeared in a catalog or sat on a store shelf. According to those who deal in such things, it was born entirely of resourcefulness. It bears no maker’s marks, suggesting it’s a product of the so-called “Pocket Snake” folk art era—likely carved by a local rural whittler to sell at a county fair or roadside stand. It’s in great condition, and the metal-pinned hinges still fluidly mimic a live serpent when wiggled.
The other toy is a 1936 Fisher-Price #440 Pluto. Built on a bone-shaped wooden paddle, it was one of the very first licensed Disney toys manufactured. Pulling metal rings attached to strings makes the beaded characterization of the well-known Mickey Mouse cartoon dog dance, bow, or sit. This one still has its original oilcloth ears and beaded tail—appendages usually lost to time and teething toddlers.
They survived my father’s childhood and my own mid-century roughhousing to become a miraculous heirloom, thanks to my grandmother’s careful preservation.
By the time my children were toddlers in the 1980s, the toy box looked vastly different. Wood had given way to injection-molded plastic, and simple mechanics gave way to Saturday morning cartoons.
That’s when the best gift to give your kids at Christmas might have been gift wrapped batteries labeled, “toys not included.”
You didn’t just buy a plastic action figure like son Lee’s G.I. Joe or daughter Robin’s Cabbage Patch dolls; you bought a 30-minute commercial disguised as entertainment.
Today’s toys are even further engineered, designed to exploit psychological triggers. Toy aisles are now dominated by blind-box “unboxing” toys and heavily marketed collectibles, using YouTube influencers bypassing parents entirely to target kids.
And the goal is no longer simply to play—it’s to trigger the body’s dopamine hit on the reveal, prompting kids to “collect them all” before the packaging even hits the playroom floor.
The buyer’s intent has shifted, too. A century ago, a parent gave a child a toy to foster calm concentration, tell stories, or simply give them a brief bit of delight during lean economic times. Today, parents more often buy toys under the heavy pressure of “educational development” or, can we be honest, to secure twenty minutes of silence from a screen-addicted toddler.
Overall, one could argue that toys have evolved from hand-whittled folk art to engineered corporate entertainment systems. But wiggling that wooden snake again last week reminded me of a time before a toy’s digital magic was dreamed up in a boardroom—a time when toys carved from a piece of wood exercised youthful brains.
My grandchildren have grown past the toy stage, and the great grands aren’t here yet. But I can already hear the conversation were I ever to pass this 100-year-old heirloom to one of them to play with.
“What does it do?” they’ll probably ask, looking for a power button.
“It wiggles,” I might say.
“And then what?”
“Then? Well, that’s when you’ll learn to use your imagination.”
—Leon Aldridge
(PHOTO ABOVE: My father’s old toys that I played with as a child. And one from my childhood, a cast metal airplane dating to around 1957—another toy that “spoke to me” as an adult.)
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Leon Aldridge is a veteran editor, publisher, and communications professional, currently enjoying semi-retirement while awaiting the next challenge. His columns appear in: The Center Light and Champion, The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.
© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2026. Feel free to use excerpts with full and clear credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’
