On The Wagon Trail
Many toys are completely useless and unentertaining after a few hours and then, there are the classic toys. These are the toys children use over and over yet seem nearly indestructible -- toys like the little red wagon. Many times those toys are outgrown well before their usefulness. I often wondered what eventually becomes of such toys.
Some, I know, are handed down to young cousins, sold or just dumped, but of the hundreds that exist it is rare ever to lay eyes on an aged one. They would appear perhaps older in style, a bit bumped, banged, chipped but otherwise in perfect operating order -- like an antique piece of furniture, well-used and well-loved.
Such toys, due to their innate usefulness and distressed condition, do not increase monetarily, but rather are valued for their nostalgic nature, durability and varied uses. But where do they all go? Could there be somewhere else besides our memories, some place almost enchanted where such toys are gathered and rejuvenated? Last summer, on a day filled with adventure, we discovered just such a place -- a land where toys are the chief mode of transportation and a drivers license is as useless as a wooden nickel.
Early one beautiful warm summer morning we packed up the mini-van with our gear and headed for the children's bachelor Uncle Bobs beach house. (Uncle is a title Bob earned. He is not related.) We met up with a bunch of friends and the three car caravan set out to meet the 9 a.m. ferry to Fire Island. Among the ten of us, we had a lot of bulky, heavy beach bags, knapsacks, duffel bags, huge coolers packed to capacity, cameras, beach buckets, umbrellas, folding camping chairs and baby strollers.
As we boarded the ferry we were so excited you'd think we were booked on the QE II.
"So, Uncle Bobby, what's Fire Island like?", asked our curious six-year old, Michael.
"It's beautiful, quiet and there's no cars", said Uncle Bob.
"No cars?", said five-year old Thomas, amazed. "Are there any buses or trains?"
"Nope. There are no roads, either", added Uncle Bob, laughing.
"What?", said the two astonished children.
"How do people get around on the island?", asked Michael.
"Well its not that big, said their dad. Its actually only a sandbar about a mile wide and thirty-two miles long."
"Right. So, people mostly walk or ride bikes on sidewalks", explained Uncle Bob.
"I love sidewalks", said Thomas, beaming, grandma has those in the Bronx.
"Well then I think you're going to like Fire Island", said Uncle Bobby smiling gently.
"Are we going to the beach today?", asked Thomas, bubbling over with hope.
"Oh yeah", Uncle Bob said definitively.
"Great!", said Thomas, clapping his hands.
"Are there many animals on the island Uncle Bobby?", Michael asked as he watched the ferry plow through the water.
"You know, I haven't seen many different kinds of animals", said Uncle Bob, thinking, "but there certainly are a lot of deer. They're so tame they'll walk right up to you."
Michael sat watching the buoys as we approached then quickly passed them.
Thomas scanned the ocean with his fists curled up by his eyes pretending they were binoculars. "Land Ho!", he shouted in his practiced sailing lingo. "Down to the poop deck, rudder port side, north side or something like that. Anyway, were here!"
"How far is the house from the port, Bob?", I asked, as the ferry pulled into the dock.
"About five or six blocks", he estimated while we walked down the steps to the lower deck.
"Aye", I sighed looking at the amount of stuff we had to carry. Well well make a few trips, I thought to myself.
Lagging behind with the children, I noticed, as I approached my husband already on the dock, that all our belongings were neatly loaded on top of some kind of dollie and secured with bungee cords.
"I didn't know you brought Michaels red wagon. I didn't see it on the ferry", I said, handing him my bags.
"I didn't", said my husband as he attached my stuff on top of the rest.
"Where did that come from?", I asked looking at the little red wagon.
"Over there", he said, pointing to the town square.
As I turned to look, Michael turned as did Thomas. Our mouths fell open when we saw a half block long, black iron rack with bicycles and hundreds of red Radio Flyer metal wagons available for hire. We watched in amazement as people, young and old alike, pulled wagons loaded with luggage four hands high while others were filled with laughing children waving as they passed.
So this is where wagons go when they're old, said Thomas.
Michael stood gazing at the scene before him. Mom, he said, I never saw so many red wagons in my life! I want to live here -- no roads, no cars, the deer are friendly, a boy can ride his bike for miles on a sidewalk, fill up his wagon with stuff and take it wherever he goes.
Thomas folded his arms, scrunched up one side of his mouth, put his finger on his temple, as he often does when he's trying to think hard, and, finally said, Who ever invented a place like this?
"You like it here, Thomas?", Uncle Bobby asked laughing gently, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
Thomas walked over to his Uncle Bobby, gave him a great big hug and said, "Like it? I love it! Forget Never Never Land, this is Better Than Ever Land because its for real!"
