The news done, Mom went to the kitchen to make supper. We were already in the middle of amusing ourselves in the toy room, digging through piles and selecting our characters for a playing. A playing happened in this wise. A toy or two would be selected by each of us from the stuffed or squeaky toys, and his name and occupation would be announced. A prologue or opening statement was proclaimed: “One day Mr. Blah-da-blah was walking down the road when he came to Mr. Blee-de-blee’s house…” The characters would meet, a problem or goal was stated (whatever popped into our head), and the story would take off, nobody knew whither. Now, a true playing wasn’t us simply manipulating these characters. A playing was us going into these toys, becoming them, forgetting our own personas while the tale unfolded. It was part puppet show, part acting, part storytelling, and completely a magical art. Furniture became mountains; cardboard boxes were houses or ships; rugs, oceans and deserts. It was journeys and adventures, and clashes of personality as we sought to become the heroes of the tale or came up with new plot complications to stir the pot (John was especially good in this department). Other versions of playings were simply acted out without toys while swinging or just running around. A bad playing might end with disagreements and fights about how the story should go; a good playing wove everyone’s input into one satisfying conclusion.
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