Something about a rainy Saturday afternoon always takes me back to childhood. (Or possibly it was that spritz of Happy Childhood Memories breath spray I took a little while ago.) I’m missing some of the vehicular toys of my youth, such as the Car-Plane. You could sit quietly in the back seat and learn to be a pilot, making the plane climb, dip and dive, looking at both the plane’s action and your ultra-modern remote control. See how the plane yearns to join those in the sky? Kind of a lot of symbolism for a kid’s boy box. I’m glad I saw it differently back then.
And it really was perfectly safe, as long as you were inside the car, and the windows were rolled up, as shown. Maybe not so safe for pedestrians or if you let it fly in the window, as I often did.
Here’s a close-up. Yeah, that’s what a remote control used to look like, and it was attached to the object it controlled—a heavy-handed version of remoteness, but it felt very jet-age and cool at the time. Interesting that we had remote controls for toys way before anyone thought about using them for TVs.
Another way to have fun in the car (or at home, as the box so aptly reminds us) was with this just like real Kiddee Drivette car seat with driver training wheel. The strange, Baby Huey-esque outfits were sold separately, but were not optional. This was all right for back-seat play, but I always got really embarrassed when other kids saw me sitting tall in my oversized baby-seat and huge dress, turning the corners along with Mom. But the idea has stuck around, as anyone who’s seen the Simpson’s opening sequence can attest. We should still insist that kids wear hideous clothing while learning how to drive. What’s sauce for the goose!
Here’s the car-related childhood toy that breaks my heart. Why did we ever let it go by the wayside? I want to bring this one back, immediately:
Oh, Buddy L, where are you now, with your quarter-a-gallon gas, including all taxes? I’d give just about anything to encounter you again. I love you, Buddy L! If you can't make it here, at least give me an address and I’ll visit. Double pinky swear.
