KS1 Toys Sessions At Birmingham Museum
(also KS2 Lego sessions at the Museum of Science & Industry)
I used a simple format for my Toys sessions: I would talk about the toys I played with as a kid and use mainly replicas of the originals to illustrate the stories for Key Stage 1 children.
However, what really added to the success of the sessions was that my teaching space was set up as a 1940s-50s living room, with an imitation coal fire, an old telephone and a poker/shovel/brush fireside set, all of which offered me the opportunity to tell stories about ‘a boy called Peter’ without letting on that the boy was once me…
 |
| DEMONSTRATING A CUP & BALL GAME WHICH WOULD BECOME BORING ONCE YOU HAD FOUND A RHYTHM... |
Visiting children had often been fascinated by the coal-fire and what the poker, shovel and brush were used for, but they were particularly interested in the old telephone. However, I would begin the session by chatting to the kids about keeping Peter’s house warm by using coal, some pieces of which I showed them.
 |
| THE TELEPHONE & A COUPLE OF BEARS, USED AS PROPS IN THE SESSION... |
I would tell them about using a sheet of newspaper to ‘draw the fire’ and I would demonstrate that in front of the false fireplace in my teaching room, before explaining what happened when young Peter tried it… The story is explained elsewhere on this blog from my childhood days at Bamville Road, Ward End, Birmingham… I still recall being smacked by my father on that fateful day, after my Nan caught me trying to ‘draw the fire’ in the kitchen with a large piece of my father’s Daily Express and of course she told my dad…
The telephone section of my session included discussing with the kids that I was always amazed that the number dialled in an emergency was 999 and I demonstrated how long it took to dial those numbers. I would suggest that by the time someone had finished dialling for an ambulance, an injured person might probably have died… The children often suggested that 111 was quicker to dial but after some discussion, they realised that a very young child inadvertently playing with the telephone would find 111 easier to dial by accident, than 999…
I would also chat with the pupils about how folks were meant to answer their telephones in those far off days but first I would ask the accompanying adults in the room how they answered their own landline phones. This was usually hilarious… A woman once said in a low, spooky voice, something like, “Dawn here…” "Really?" I replied, with some suspicion...
On another occasion:
Me: “What do you say?”
Reply: “I say hello, who’s speaking?”
Me: “You say, I say hello, who’s speaking?”
Reply: “No, I don’t say ‘I say’, I just say who’s speaking?”
And so it went on in farcical terms…
Sometimes an adult said that they picked up the handset and spoke their own telephone number, which of course rarely happens these days. You were really supposed to say your number in the 1950s and 1960s, so that callers knew that they had dialled correctly, although of course confidence tricksters would eventually use that type of reply to their advantage. I would tell the pupils that when finally my parents had a telephone installed, my mum, who held the handset like it was going to give her an electric shock at any moment, would tentatively almost whisper: “730 2554…”
My Auntie Ivy of course lived in Solihull and didn’t say the 705 (Solihull) bit of 705 6057 but answered with, “SOLIHULL 6057…” I think she really liked living there… After later moving house, she would say, “KNOWLE double 7, double 4, 18…” and leave out the 01564 code for Knowle… She really, really liked living in Knowle…
So, on to the toys the boy Peter played with as a kid and of course the information about them can be found elsewhere on this blog but the stories were fun to tell the visiting children about…
Being a cowboy, the Lone Ranger & Davy Crockett…
Ambushing Grandma…
 |
| I REALLY LIKED DRESSING AS A COWBOY... |
Eyes glued,
Meanings misconstrued.
Lariat was hastily covered
By the trail dust.
Taut, one end attached
To a sturdy bush,
The other held nervously
By the hunted ambusher, perspiring
With such anticipation.
And thus my plan was hatched…
Lips smiled,
Reality defiled.
Lasso was hastily yanked
By the anxious prey.
Tight rope was raised
To trip the mounts
Of the riding predators,
By a jubilant cowboy, bellowing
With such satisfaction.
And thus my mind was crazed…
Heart skipped,
Sanity dipped.
String was carefully tied
By the small child,
Timid, yet determined,
To a chair leg
And gripped in the kitchen, hidden
By a single step down, hovering
With such trepidation.
And thus this child sinned…
Mind wept,
Woefully inept.
Trick hopelessly exposed,
By even my Nan.
Tepid, unemotional, even sad,
To expose self-pity.
The ruse tumbled, she hesitated and
By jove, her anger rose, simmering,
With such realisation:
And thus, my fate: “Wait ‘til I tell your Dad…”
Pete Ray
Saw this on a TV Western show, when a cowboy on a horse was being chased by baddies… He then suddenly stopped beyond a bend, tied one end of his rope around a sturdy bush, laid the main section across the trail and hastily covered it with dust.
He then hid behind the bush awaiting his pursuers. He yanked the rope taut as they were almost upon him, tripping the unfortunate horses and hastening the villains’ demise.
I tried it on Nan… And failed. She told my dad.
I was berated and then harshly smacked.
I dressed as much as I could as the Lone Ranger, from the TV series and also Davy Crockett, wearing the hat which my Nan had made for me, using an old fur stole.
I pretended to shoot the neighbour Floss Phillips with my toy rifle and guns but what I loved most of all was when mum was out and I could climb astride an arm of the sofa or a chair, like it was a horse and pretend to be an American Native Indian firing arrows from a bow, then be shot and fall spectacularly and gymnastically onto the carpet. Falling properly and landing well, it was no wonder I became a wicketkeeper and a 5-a-side goalkeeper…
The children would see me with the Lone Ranger’s mask and hat on in my session and also wearing a modern version of Davy Crockett’s hat, for the one Nan made me was likely thrown away many years ago…
AS THE LONE RANGER...
I Was Nearly The Lone Ranger…
I was left-handed and toy holsters were usually made
For those who favoured their right,
But I craved some authenticity
And became rather stubborn and contrite…
The Lone Ranger though, sported two hand-guns,
Plus a flawless outfit and a dark mask,
But to find a double-holster for little old me
Would be an unenviable parental task…
They succeeded though and so it was
That I wore both guns with cool pride,
Lifting the left one more regularly of course,
Leaving my smoking right hand at my side…
No mask, no horse called Silver, “Hi-ho!”
No Tonto, no cries of “Kemosabe!” (faithful friend):
Merely a cowboy who fired at the woman next door,
With an only child’s lonely hours to spend…
Pete Ray
 |
| SHOWING AN IMAGE FROM AN OLD LONE RANGER NOVEL... |
Being nearly the Lone Ranger.
I just wanted to be a ‘left-hand gun’…
Tonto was the masked man’s trusty friend, whose horse was called scout, which was interesting because ‘kemosabe’ also meant ‘trusty scout’, I believe…
I pretended to shoot Floss next door, as she powered off towards Kitsland Road shops…
She never knew…
The Apache Was Shot From His Horse
Rifle gripped, arm held high,
I leap-frogged off my right palm
Onto the blanket of an unsaddled pony,
My Apache scream piercing the calm…
Bare heels dug into my horse’s girth,
From my rifle I fired off a round
But was soon hit by an accurate bullet
From Davy Crockett, lying on the ground…
I arched with a cry, my rifle dropped,
I was unseated and thrown backwards awry
Into a partial back somersault onto the trail,
Landing prone and bled out to die…
My rifle was a toy, the trail a carpet,
The arm of mum’s sofa was my horse;
The blanket was a hand-towel, my enemy invented:
I was a child and a gymnast, of course…
Pete Ray
The Davy Crockett Hat
 |
| BEING DAVY CROCKETT... |
The Range Rider and
Obviously
The Lone Ranger were musts
As I sat before a small TV,
Black and white for sure but I was wide-eyed…
Until Davy Crockett,
Obviously,
That lauded king of the wild frontier lands:
His headgear was a must for me,
Fur-trimmed with a raccoon’s tail,
But inaccessible,
Obviously…
Until, from a family of weavers,
My grandmother intervened,
Cutting a rough circle of brown material,
Her work would be hand-sewn, not machined…
Recycling an old fox-fur stole,
She attached it to the circumference
Of the russet off-cut of cloth,
To fit upon my childhood head, at my insistence…
The piece de resistance was however to follow,
For the finishing touch to impress without fail
Was her clever use of the fox’s brush
To add to my Davy Crockett hat:
Its tail…
Pete Ray
The Range Rider ‘where the deer and the antelope play’ and The Lone Ranger were my favourite TV programmes as a small boy but when the Davy Crockett series was introduced, I fell for the rifle and the fur-trimmed hat with its raccoon tail…
Crockett was a real person of course, being a soldier, a frontier scout and indeed a politician too…
Roller skates…
Bought for me as a gift just before we moved house to Shard End, I practised before school on my birthday along the path in the back garden. I fell, cut my knees but was sent to school anyway. I still have the minutest of scars…
Sore Knees and Skates
MY SKATES WERE LIKE THOSE PICTURED...
Birthday.
Just now six years old.
A present wrapped
Then opened,
Instantly cherished:
Roller skates!
September day.
Just about ready for school.
A spanner wrenched
Then turned,
Adjustment. Tightened.
Breakfast awaits.
Emerging day.
Just must try them on.
A strap buckled
Then secured:
Floppy toe-end
Merely slips.
Upsetting day.
Just hate the toe-pieces.
A knot pulled
Then attached:
Shoe connection…
Fewer trips.
Special day.
Just out in the yard.
A bow tied
Then knotted.
Unsteadily standing:
Balance affected.
Dull day.
Just one more attempt.
A wall held
Then released.
Stamping wheels:
‘Style’ perfected.
School day.
Just time to get there.
A few falls
Then upright.
Patience rewarded:
Control regained.
Another day.
Just gliding rubber wheels.
A smart turn
Then sprinting…
Carefree speed:
Fear unrestrained.
Pete Ray
Learning to roller-skate in the back-yard, on my birthday, before school, 1950s…
The hand-puppet:
It had belonged to my twin cousins, Dave and Derek…
 |
| I GUESS IT WAS A FINGER PUPPET... |
The head no longer exists but it was made of rubber. The children had to guess what kind of head it once had… They usually got it right, too…
It was actually a monkey.
It had languished for many years in dad’s shed until he fished it out, despite the fact that the head had disintegrated and he used it to wrap bank notes inside, which he had collected on his insurance round. He hid the puppet’s body behind the water tank in the airing cupboard on the landing until he ‘paid in’ each Wednesday morning…
I would use the original headless puppet with my finger as a replacement skull to show the children and tell the story…
 |
| ALWAYS USEFUL TO WORK IN TANDOM WITH A MORE INTELLIGENT SIDEKICK... |
Dinky Toys…
My father gave my toy vehicles away, including my favourite racing cars to a lad in his road, then asked me if it was OK if he could do so, expecting immediate agreement. I did agree, except for the racing cars. He then retorted sharply, “Too late, I’ve already done it…”
Thanks for that.
 |
| LOVE THESE... |
I have collected copies of them since then and would show the children how I played with them, often using the garden path as a kind of raceway.
 |
| MY RACETRACK PATH... |
The teddy bear and the duck…
My Teddy…
 |
| THE ONLY IMAGE I POSSESS OF MY TEDDY BEAR... |
There was a Duck:
Worn, cream cloth,
Two small wings,
Ripped orange beak.
Barely played with it.
Simply lay around.
Too small a thing.
Outlook bleak.
There was a Bear:
Worn sandy cloth,
Two sad eyes,
Tripped, tackled, thrown.
Rarely stayed with it.
Glibly lay around.
Too sad cries.
Ted outgrown.
Dressed by a pupil:
Ted regained some pride,
Despite his loss of fur,
Outlasted a pair of cuddly rabbits,
A scrawny duck for company,
He survived the marriage blur.
Dressed by a daughter:
Ted displayed a Villa shirt,
Despite his sewn-up paws,
Rested proudly on car’s rear shelf,
A scrawny duck for company.
He heard Wembley’s Lions’ roars.
There was a theft:
Worn out vehicle,
Two small toys,
Gripped, despised, tossed.
Brutally dispensed by hate.
Sadly lying aground.
Two small joys,
Immeasurable, heartfelt cost.
There was a signature:
Worn on vehicle,
Too deeply written,
Dug, gouged, scratched.
Callously incensed by colours.
Pathetically lying aground.
Too deeply smitten,
‘BCFC’, criminals matched.
Loved by a child:
Ted was never found,
Despite his owner’s search,
Misted a pair of adult’s eyes,
A scrawny duck for company,
He vanished, besmirched…
Mourned by a man,
Ted became a memory,
Despite his limitations;
Detested those who stole old Ted,
A scrawny duck for company.
He’d succumbed to desecration…
Pete Ray
Aston Villa beat Manchester United in the League Cup Final of 1994. My daughter Lucy dressed my old Teddy in a Villa kit, he sat on the rear shelf of our Austin Montego on the drive to London and back with my old cloth Duck and he maybe brought a little luck to the Midlands club.
We returned late in the evening and I foolishly left Ted and Duck in the vehicle but sadly my car was stolen from outside the house during the night, a week later. It was found in Tamworth a few days on, muddy and disabled by the thieves. They were obviously Birmingham City fans for they had scratched ‘BCFC’ on the hood in huge capital letters.
They must have found the teddy bear in its Villa kit and thrown it out of the car somewhere, along with the duck, never to be seen again, hence the lettering.
Inside a bird book in the trunk of the car there was a £5 note.
The Blues fans failed to find it.
No comment…
Wanting to be a wicketkeeper…
Wanting To Be A Wicketkeeper
I gazed at the leg protectors
With a modicum of surprise:
They beguiled me, they bewitched me,
The way they flapped at the thighs.
I so wanted a pair of my own to wear,
A gift my parents never acquired
And so I improvised in the back garden
Alone, with my imagination inspired…
I gazed at the large padded gloves,
With barely concealed fascination;
A cricket ball would become smoothly engulfed
And so to keep wicket became my inclination.
I desperately wanted a pair of my own,
A gift my parents never acquired
And so I improvised in the garden shed,
An only child, with a vision inspired…
An elastic sock garter just below my knees
Attached my soccer shin pads securely there;
When I walked they flapped against my thighs
And the pleasure was nearly too much to bear…
I tugged on mum’s adult gardening gloves next,
I looked the real deal, I thought
But gartered shin pads and mum’s soiled gloves
Didn’t afford me the appearance I sought…
Thus I strode round the back garden,
Or threw a tennis ball against a wall,
Catching it with a flourish like I was a wicketkeeper,
An imitation which did me no harm at all…
Pete Ray
Watching on TV in the late 1950s when Australia appeared in Test Matches against England and seeing Wally Grout, the Aussie wicketkeeper, my hero at the time…
He was just brilliant to watch and I modelled my style upon him.
 |
| WALLY GROUT... |
My neighbours must have laughed as I walked about the garden with two small shin pads flapping just above my knees but in fact,
I WAS Wally Grout…
 |
| I WOULD TUCK THE BOTTOMS OF MY FATHER'S SOCCER SHIN PADS INTO MY SOCK GARTERS JUST BELOW MY KNEES, SO THAT THE TOPS FLAPPED ON MY THIGHS LIKE REAL WICKETKEEPERS' PADS... |
When I attended secondary school, I commandeered the pads and gloves right away and with my cricket slacks tucked into garish red football socks, spent many hours being Wally Grout, leaping about, catching, but only batting if I really had to…
 |
| ONE OF MY BEST POSSESSIONS: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY ABOUT WALLY GROUT... |
I kept wicket for Lucas GKS too in later years…
Loved it. Even opened the batting too…
The leather football, the lead battleship & the ring board…
The children were indeed amazed that the leather football looked like it did and when they realised that it became heavier when wet and that the lace was a nasty shock when headed, they began to realise how tough it must have been for kids to kick and attempt to head such a ball.
 |
| THE LEATHER FOOTBALL... (NOTE THE ORIGINAL MONKEY ON A STICK...) |
I told the kids that the metal battleship I was showing them was a pain because being a boat, a child would want to use it in the bath but it was made of lead and it would simply sink… Perhaps it was a toy made for the children of German U-boat mariners during World War II.
The ring board is still very much a prized possession for me and I would throw a set of rings at it in a variety of ways during the Toys session to show how different members of my family attempted to win the Boxing Day rings competition at my house…
Boxing Day Rings: The Contenders For The Bummer Cup…
Stoic Uncle Jack was an outside threat,
Though his finishes weren’t quite the thing;
Often struggled with individual hooks
And would generally lose by barely a ring.
UNCLE JACK LOOKS SERIOUS, WATCHED BY HIS WIFE IVY...
Looping cousin Derek was surprisingly accurate,
Though his action was knee-bendingly slow;
Usually survived to the later rounds,
Then would bow out with little to show.
His determined twin Dave was always a danger,
Though his impetuosity was his Achilles’ heel;
Generally threw with flat darts action
And would always express the anger he’d feel.
Give-Up Auntie Ivy was unwilling to perform,
Though a shadowy determination arose;
Often purposely threw away games
Then would often haplessly forfeit her throws.
Ailing Margaret was allowed to stand close,
Though undaunted, she thought she’d thrown well;
Was usually applauded for almost placing rings on to win
And would put the vanquished through a frustrating hell.
My timid mum was an interesting competitor,
For she stared each ring down to the floor,
Generally following it as it rolled round the carpet
And would watch as it slipped out through the door.
AUNTS GHRETA & IRIS WATCH MY MUM THROWING RINGS...
Chatting Auntie Ghreta was an also-ran,
Though a really good game she talked;
Often commentating on each ring she’d cast,
Then would throw impatiently, just like she walked.
Yours truly became a perennial loser,
Though I practised from when school was out;
Usually I reached the last eight or four,
Yet would win nothing when my father was about.
Victorious Vic, my dad was the annual winner,
Though his leaning, his foot-placement, his action
Generally brought jeers and calls of “You’re cheating…”
But that would only draw a perennial smile of smug satisfaction…
Pete Ray
Throwing 6 rings onto a home-made wooden board bearing numbered hooks from 1 to 13.
Boxing Day each year.
Names were drawn from a hat to decide competitive pairings and to win a game, one had to reach exactly 101.
My dad was good. No trouble usually getting 13, 9, 11 and 10. Annoying.
The Bummer Cup thus always stayed in my house…
When family friend Margaret Brown reached the latter stages to play against him, my father made her stand at the normal throwing line, however…
How unfair on the rest of us that was.
Dad benefited, however.
It’s what he did…
Finishing off…
My final admission to the children though left them in some shock, as well as their accompanying adults, for when I revealed that the little boy I had been talking about was actually me, there was a total hush and an air of disbelief…
The Toys session was one of my favourites and always ended with the excellent horse racing game, Escalado…
Escalado and modern workmanship…
The original set once belonged to my twin cousins Derek and Dave and of course in true Hedges hand-me-down fashion, I was the final recipient…
However, I had recently bought a newer edition of the game, rather like the older version which had also been made by the Birmingham firm of Chad Valley. The children and I would walk across to a table with the two racecourse straights side-by side, stretched along the length of the surface of the table and clipped onto each end, so that when a handle was turned, the green racecourse would pull against stretched rubber bands and shake the horses along the length of the track towards the finish line.
 |
| ESCALADO OLD & NEW... |
The horses were painted different colours and the children were asked to choose a winner, as were the adults and we set the older version of the game into action first. The horses were metal, likely made from lead, the track was made of a slightly rough material which gave traction and every 20cm or so there were studs fixed on the course, like jumps in real life and they sometimes baulked the horses, making for an exciting race. The cheers and encouraging bellows were probably heard several miles away at Aston Hall and indeed many of the Museum’s curators would likely have been awoken from their slumbers…
 |
| BLUE WON AT EVENS... |
Then we would set up the newer version of Escalado to start but I said nothing at all to the children about the different materials used for the horses and how the track was made compared to the older game.
The handle was turned…
The horses shook a little, stayed where they were and began to fall over…
It soon became evident to the kids that the track had been made with the marked finish line where the start line ought to have been…
Eventually we got the race started but the horses moved only barely and constantly fell over. So, we then had a discussion to find out why this had happened.
It was great how the KS1 children thought about it all and I would firstly ask a child to hold one horse from each game to find out whether and how they were different. Of course the new horses were plastic and a whole lot lighter. The pupils noticed too that even though there were no studs on the new game’s smooth plastic track, the regular falling over was due to the horses being so fragile and light. Of course, the racetrack lacked traction, too.
The children were amazed by the poor modern version of Escalado and naturally almost all of them preferred the older version…
I guess the sessions would end on a real high….
Lego at the Museum of Science & Industry…
When my colleague Elfyn Morris was unable to do a few sessions at the MSI, I substituted for him, after watching what he did. The session was about making a wheeled vehicle out of Lego to roll down a slope and see whose construction was the most effective. Half the class stayed in the classroom, the other half used a worksheet in the Museum and then the groups changed over.
It soon became evident that despite suggestions made as I walked round the tables where the children were working, when the testing began, some vehicles would simply not roll…
Hence, it was a bit like The Great British Bake Off, when the hosts of the programme walk round and chat about what the bakers were hoping to produce.
However, when the testing began, the session became more like The Generation Game and I became a clone of Bruce Forsyth, for I was able to have fun with the kids when their vehicles simply failed to travel down the slope, or looked a little crazy… I had asked them to name their vehicles too, so it became hilarious when something like Brian’s Bullet stuck on the slope after two centimetres…
Strange that I should end up doing that session though because I had never used Lego in my life and even when my daughters used it, I could find no enthusiasm at all…
Construction was never easy for me…
I could kick and catch a ball though.
Sad, really…
THE 'CITY OF BIRMINGHAM' WOULD MOVE A FEW INCHES EVERY SO OFTEN AT THE OLD SCIENCE MUSEUM & ONE DAY, A SECURITY GUARD ALLOWED ME TO PRESS THE SWITCH...
SAD, I KNOW...
No comments:
Post a Comment