“Daddy, we found this but we can’t open it.” I recognized it immediately: my mother’s old jewelry box that had long ago become storage for toys. “We can’t get in it, so we don’t know what’s there.” And neither did I, but I was curious.

Nana and Papa had saved some of my old toys and books from my childhood, and now that K and I have children of our own, we’ve pulled some of the toys out and re-issued them. The Boy has gone simply crazy over my old Matchbox cars, and L has incorporated some of my old books into her favorites rotation, but this old box was a mystery. There was no use searching for a key, and the thought of picking a lock — even a simple mechanism like this — was laughable. A straight-slot screwdriver and a quick twist of the wrist did the trick, though.

“Oh, some of my old G.I. Joe toys!” And I was instantly transported back thirty years to the time when these simple bits of plastic were the world to me. I pulled the figures out, remembering how I’d discovered the fact that unscrewing the small screw in the figure’s back opened a new world of creative possibilities: this figure’s legs could be attached to that figure’s torso.

Some of the figures exited the O.R. in worse repair than they entered. “What happened to that fellows arm?” I pondered before realize that it must have been a battle wound. The same with that fellow’s melted-off hand.

My collection was always modest. I had a few figures, a few vehicles. Several in my collection were from mail-in offers, including two of my four bad guys. It was a long time before I realized how utterly laughable the idea of Cobra — a secret army plotting to take over the world — was, but at the time, it seemed a more realistic alternative to Star Wars figures.

And besides, G.I. Joe figures articulated at the elbows and knees, far more realistic than the Star Wars figures that had to look like they were eternally goose-stepping imitators of Frankenstein. Later figures even added a second plane of motion: the elbows rotated.

None in my collection sported that awesomeness, though: they were old-school, bend-at-the-elbow figures.

I took them out, lined them up, and explained to L who were the good guys and who the bad.

“Can we play with them tomorrow?” she asked.

“Sure,” I replied, wondering what schemes and stories a girl used to playing with princesses and Barbies might come up with for a pile of old G.I. Joe figures.