Tinker Toys. Greatest Toy Ever?

I had a love affair with Tinker Toys when I was a kid. Well, I guess you could say I still do. I loved creating cityscapes with those toys. When I talk about Tinker Toys, I’m taking about the old wooden ones, not the supersized plastic pieces of crap being sold today.

Our Tinker Toys came from a garage sale. Back in my day, garage sales were the best places to get the best toys. It’s where we found a model train set, a suitcase organ, countless books, and Tinker Toys. These were the days when garage sales were still popular spots for getting great bargains, before eBay ruined it all. Today people think they’re going to make a mint on the junk in their attics or basements. I miss real garage sales.

But this isn’t about garage sales. At least for today it’s not about garage sales. Today is about those really cool, wooden toys. I can’t even start to calculate how many hours I spent building with them. I had skyscrapers, houses, cars, planes, and even people. I built rocket ships and used the upstairs as outer space. I can remember one time that I built a high-rise all the way to the ceiling in grandma’s house, which was one of those tall ceilings like you find in old houses. There’s a picture of it somewhere in the mess of pictures I have in my library.

The best part of Tinker Toys? You were only limited by your imagination. They were like Legos, but just a little bit better. The box we had was full of the wooden rods and spools. My sister and brother also played with them, but I was definitely the most adept and making huge creations.

Some time after we became adults, my grandmother gave the box of Tinker Toys away to a friend’s grandchildren. It was definitely an unpopular decision. We still loved them, and I wanted to show Wendy how awesome these toys were. Although those toys are long gone from our homes, I hope they are still being enjoyed after years of being infused with our memories.

Tinker Toys were invented by Charles H. Pajeau, Robert Pettit, and Gordon Tinker in 1913 or 1914 in Evanston, Illinois. For all you math-letes out there, the differing length sticks were meant to be based upon the Pythagorean progressive right triangle. Hopefully one of my math friends can explain that fully. In order of length, the sticks were orange (1.25 inches), yellow (2.15), blue(3.35), red(5.05) green(7.40), and purple(10.35).

According to their website, Each successively longer rod is (with allowances for the size of the spools) next smaller size times the square root of two; thus any two of the same size will combine with one of the next size up, and three spools, to form an isosceles right triangle (45°–45°–90°).

In 1992, they changed from wooden sticks to plastic ones and also increased the diameter of the sticks. I own some of the new style Tinker Toys, but still prefer the old wooden sets.  I have a couple of small sets in their cardboard containers that I found here and there. I’m always on the lookout for a set of the 1960s version. If you happen to see any around, let me know.

Mysterious Lights on Lake Ontario

When I was 12-15 years old, I used to stay with my grandmother regularly over the summers. She lived in Lyndonville, about five miles from Lake Ontario. Once in awhile, she’d get a call in the evening after dark from a friend who lived along the lake. The lights were on the lake. So, we’d get ready and head out to check out the spectacle.

At the end of Route 63 at Shadigee, there would be a dozen or more cars parked to check out these mysterious lights that appeared to be floating halfway across the water.  For some reason, the lights seemed to be most prevalent during the time period of 1986-1990. We went out several times to see them.

Mirage at Rochester 1871.
Courtesy Department of Rare Books & Special Collections,
University of Rochester Library

What were the lights on the lake? They didn’t look like they were far enough away to be Toronto, but they definitely resembled a cityscape, complete with moving vehicles. Maybe it was some sort of reflection of the city from the clouds? It was a mystery that drew many people to the shores of the great lake.

I used to dream that there was a lost city in the middle of the lake that sunk beneath the waves hundreds if not thousands of year before in an attempt to escape the perils of the world. Every once in awhile, the city would resurface to see how the future was faring in their absence.  After determining that the rest of us still needed more time to mature, they would sink beneath the water again.

So, what is the deal with the lights on the lake? A story from Rochester in 1871 may shed some light.  On a beautiful, sunny day in April, 1871, visitors to Mount Hope Cemetery caught sight of a very unusual phenomenon. When they looked off toward Lake Ontario, they were astounded when they realized they could see the northern shore of Lake Ontario in vivid detail. People could see forests, structures, and Canadian landmarks, easily identifiable despite the intervening distance of 50 miles.

A similar event took place in Buffalo August 18, 1894 when Toronto’s harbor appeared in startling detail. From Scientific American, dated August 25, 1894:

A MIRAGE SEEN AT BUFFALO, NY – The people of Buffalo NY were treated to a remarkable mirage, between ten and eleven o’clock, on the morning of August 16, 1894. It was the city of Toronto with its harbor and small island to the south of the city. Toronto is fifty-six miles from Buffalo, but the church spires could be counted with the greatest ease. The mirage took in the whole breadth of Lake Ontario, Charlotte, the suburbs of Rochester, being recognized as a projection east of Toronto. A side-wheel steamer could be seen traveling in a line from Charlotte to Toronto Bay. Two dark objects were at last found to be the steamers of the New York Central plying between Lewiston and Toronto. A sail-boat was also visible and disappeared suddenly. Slowly the mirage began to fade away, to the disappointment of thousands who crowded the roofs of houses and office buildings. A bank of clouds was the cause of the disappearance of the mirage. A close examination of the map showed the mirage did not cause the slightest distortion, the gradual rise of the city from the water being rendered perfectly. It is estimated that at least 20,000 spectators saw the novel spectacle. This mirage is what is known as that of the third order; that is, the object looms up far above the level and not inverted, as with mirages of the first and second orders, but appearing like a perfect landscape far away in the sky.

Apparently, the phenomenon is known as a Fata Morgana, an unusual form of mirage. It is named after Morgan le Fay, the enchantress from the Arthurian legend. Supposedly, le Fay used her witchcraft to lure sailors to their deaths with castles appearing in mid-air.

A Fata Morgana occurs when rays of light are bent as they “pass through air layers of different temperatures in a steep thermal inversion where an atmospheric duct has formed.” Basically, it’s an optical illusion where the light is bent in such a way that objects far beyond the horizon appear visible and magnified.

While this seems to take some of the mystery away from the lights I saw as a teen, there are still some questions as to the lights on the lake. I only saw this happen at night. Can a Fata Morgana happen at night? I would imagine so. There must have been a series of perfect atmospheric conditions prevalent 1986-1990 that gave us a grand view of Toronto appearing in the middle of the lake.

I still like the idea of an ancient secret civilization nestled snug at the bottom of the 800-ft deep lake. I’m guessing that someday that could be a story I could write. In the meantime, does anyone who lives along the lake still see the lights on the lake or Toronto in vivid detail?

A Look Back at My 16 Year Old Self

I was trying to organize my work area (a laughable concept according to my wife) when I found a couple of old notebooks containing a novel I attempted to write when I was a sophomore in high school. It is a glimpse into what seems to be the distant past. It also is exquisitely bad. Terrible, in fact, but it is a first step as a writer.

As many of you know, I have always been an avid reader. I had an idea that I would like to write, but never really acted upon it until a friend showed me a novel he had written. Dan Forsyth had written a terrific horror novel that piqued my imagination. I immediately began my own novel, Electric Land. In addition to awful writing, it had an awful title to boot.

I was 16 years old when I wrote this novel. In the intervening 26 years, I have greatly improved. At least I hope I have. I re-read parts of this writing to see where my mind was back in high school. I was a big fan of Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and Robert McCammon. That likely showed through in what I was trying to accomplish. For giggles, I've decided to include a snippet from the beginning of the book.

This is how we wrote in the days before there was a computer in every home.

So, if you're brave and can hold in the laughter here it is:

The lightning ripped through the darkness with the following thunder rolling across the night sky. A heavy downpour threw itself from the clouds and pelted the ground with its fury. Trees bent at crazy angles as the wind fought to topple them.

From inside the old cabin at the base of the mountain, they were safe until the storm ended. The group of high school seniors were having a party earlier in the day when the storm hit. The sudden downpour washed out the road back to town, and they took refuge in the cabin.

The cabin itself was a piece of work. It had been built back in the late 1800s by Clarkston's only millionaire in its history. He had it built for a young woman he was having an affair with. She became pregnant and his wife said he must take care of the girl.

For nearly nine months, Mr. James Clark hid his girl in the cabin. He owned most of the land in the mountains and had the area posted so no outsiders would discover her. Clark's visits to the cabin were frequent and often at night so as to not arouse suspicion in the village.

As local story goes, the baby was stillborn and Clark killed the girl. He went back to his mansion in town and withdrew all his money from the banks and disappeared. Somewhere in those mountains were the graves of a mother and her stillborn son.

Seventeen-year-old Eric Whire told the story while he and the other group of teenagers sat around the fireplace. Outside the cabin, the storm blew its fury. In several spots, rain seeped in through the roof and the cabin floor was gradually getting waterlogged. After being in disuse for some time, the cabin leaked like a sieve.

The whole group had heard the story. In fact, the whole town knew the story, but they all still liked to hear about it. Each time it was told, it got bigger and better. Every time it was told to an out-of-towner, a group of tourists would scour the area looking for Clark's long-gone money.

Okay. There's a tiny snippet from the very beginning of my grand masterpiece. Believe me, it gets much worse. I had no idea how to develop a plot or characters. The plot is thin to the point of having huge holes in it. As for the characters, they have no depth and do not grow throughout the story. Despite how bad it was, I still want to thank Dan for giving me that extra push to try my hand at writing.

I have two full notebooks of this nonsense. All of it is written in longhand. That's how we did it before there were computers in every pocket. Sure there were typewriters, but we didn't carry them around to study hall. It would take awhile to type all that into the computer. I'm not sure it's really worth it.

The Times They Are A-Changin'

Last night I was looking at Google Maps of the area around my grandmother's house in Lyndonville. In satellite view, I flew over the small Western New York Village, recognizing places I once played during the summers spent with my grandmother. As I moved the scene around town, I realized that the old Hojack Railroad Bridge was gone.

The old train line that ran through the area was officially abandoned in 1978. I can just barely remember one time having to wait for a train at the crossing by the Lyndonville Fire Department. It could be apocryphal, but I'm pretty sure I saw a train there once.

After the line was abandoned, I had a wonderful time exploring the old rails and ties where it crossed the back  lots across the street from my grandmother's house. I collected railroad spikes and date spikes and brought them home. It drove my dad crazy. I'm sure my collection is long gone, dad having thrown them out during any number of garage cleanings when he thought I wasn't looking.

As a pre-teen and young teenager, I had a great deal of fun exploring along the right-of-way. Just behind the Fire Station, the railroad crossed Johnson's Creek. Crossing the old bridge there was kind of a right of passage, especially for a kid like me who was afraid of heights.

The rotting ties had spaces between them that gave the explorer glimpses of the rushing water below. After years of disrepair and abandonment, some of the ties were in terrible shape. I was pretty afraid to cross where there were larger gaps. At my youngest, I would cling to the iron sides of the bridge. I could grab the sides for stability and hopefully have something to grab if the ties collapsed.

As a got older, I got more daring and would run right down the middle of the bridge where things were the most deteriorated. It got to the point that I had no fears whatsoever. Even later, when I was dating Wendy, I wanted to show off some of my old haunts. The railroad bridge was always a highlight. I took her out there to show off how brave I was by running the length of the bridge.

Looking back, it really wasn't as dangerous as I thought when I was fifteen. At any rate, it was part of my formative years. There is a special spot in my heart for that old railroad bridge. So, when I saw that the bridge was gone, I was a little heartbroken.

To be honest, the bridge was likely a liability for the village. However, it did make it easy for people on the east end of town to quickly get over to Main Street. When I realized the bridge was gone, I thought it would have been great if the Village installed a pedestrian bridge and made the old right-of-way a trail for its residents to use.  I have no idea if they were even able to do that, or want to. It was just a thought.

Seeing that old bridge dismantled and carted away makes the area seemed a little barren, a little less full of life. Where will the hobos camp, sheltered from the elements? Those memories of running across the bridge to pick the good blackberries on the other side are only in the past. As more pieces of history are lost to "progress," I get a little sad.

If any of you have memories of the Hojack bridge in Lyndonville, please feel free to comment below. Just be sure to keep the sordid details out of them. (If they're really good stories -- private message me --jk).

Goodbye, old friend. I will miss you.