Plastic playgrounds are just sad

Slate Magazine contributor Tom Vanderbilt has an article  ”Lawn Pox” which made several amenable points. First Vanderbilt decries the sprawl of huge, plastic, primary-colored “play sets” that clutter suburban lawns.  They’re ugly and usually vacant and therefore are a needless eyesore. Beyond that he suggests that the “toys” are indicative of significant sociological trends.

You should read about some of the companies that make these deluxe implements of “kiddie clutter” and what they get for a “6-in-1 Town Center!” Lucky kid!

Vanderbilt blames fear for the plastic jungle and disappearance of the community playground– fear of injury and predators. One parent boasted that there were no “splinters” in her kid’s smooth, plastic set. And then there’s parental guilt: get them a big, impressive toy to substitute for  . . .  you know.

One reader offered a feeble defense of the toys if you’re interested.

I’m not really pro-lawn, but I am anti-toy — not all toys, just the drossy kind. Giant toys for little children is just sad. The monoliths are as ugly as those green, plastic mail boxes and dog houses molded in the same vein. All of it’s headed for the yard sale.

My fondest memories are from gramdparents’ homes and the home of a second cousin. At the grandparents’ we ran through woods and built pine straw forts with sticks and sometimes broke garbage bottles on giant rocks (Milk of Magnesia was bright blue!) and pretended the shards were jewelry. Yea, it was dangerous if you were stupid.

At the cousin’s we had no “lawn,” so we played under a railroad track bridge with a creek running under it. There were probably snakes where we waded barefoot in murky water waiting for a train and the noise and terrific shaking. Good times.

And those woods? Leprechauns everywhere! We saw them! Promise.

Big hat. No cattle.

My current night (actually in the bed) reading is STILL Atlas Shrugged, which will, I estimate, take me seven months to complete. It deserves to be savored. Pre-bed reading involves toggling between The Millionaire Next Door and Millionaire ‘Women Next Door. Even though English won out (barely) over sociology as my major, both involve observing and understanding people, and there’s nothing like a nonfiction, well-researched text about topics like money.

Big hat, no cattle is an expression that symbolizes one thing that Thomas Stanley’s research made evident: real wealth doesn’t show.  Rich isn’t wealthy. The book shows that 80% of current millionaires are first genreation: they didn’t inherit. Most are businessmen who live in their hometown with their first wives in a home surrounded by neighbors that make far less than they do. Most don’t drive foreign cars. Two thirds are self-employed. The wife’s job (50% don’t work) is teacher.

The figures? Total taxable is $131,000 (50th percentile) with average income at $247,000. Eight percent (low) have incomes in the $500,000 to $999,999 category. Most live on less than 7% of their wealth. The current home is valued at $320,000, the same home they’ve lived in for 20 years, thus its value has appreciated greatly.

The point is that many people have sacrificed wealth for high-status material possessions. No wonder. In a commercial, advertisement-driven world, we are told that we must buy because we deserve it. 

Both books are in your local library or get them cheap at BN. Both go beyond facts and figures to render informed advice and, most interestingly, biographical snips and examples.  Great reading.    (allow that the pub. date is 1996)