You cannot, of course, judge a book by its cover. You’re usually wrong when you do and besides you will automatically violate the American Lexicon Language Cliche Act of 1952, which clearly states that such folksy maxims should guide everyday interpersonal operations.
With this in mind, I tried to wrap my mind around the woman in front of me in the supermarket checkout line yesterday, who was buying Lean Cuisine and prepackaged everything, frozen this and preservative-laden that. I’d have expected such purchases from a twenty-something, probably starting in her first apartment, or a harried soccer mom. This was the ultimate hippie holdover woman, though–right down to the graying, butt-length hair, Jesus-sneaker sandals, and a dress that I could only describe with two words: Holly Hobbie.

Why, oh why, do I remember poor Holly Hobbie? I tried to use her name to describe the dress to a slightly older friend, whose childhood predated Holly. He didn’t get it at all. I’m sure that if I used the same reference to one of my own twenty-something friends they’d be equally lost.

Since I’m sure that a few of you reading this are not in the 25-45 age bracket beloved of marketing agencies and insurance companies, I’ll take a moment to enlighten you. Holly Hobbie was a character/doll/line of merchandise in the ‘70s. She was a cute little homespun girl in long calico dresses and sunbonnets, always surrounded by wildflowers. Obviously designed to cash in on the longings of those who’d just graduated from the Summer of Love into parenthood, she embodied the schmaltzy unreality of the Good Olde Tymes when girls wore things like calico and sunbonnets. (Even as a child, I didn’t buy it. Who were these sunbonneted people, anyway? The ancient photographs of my Baltimore and Missouri relatives all showed women tricked out in silk and lace, or at the very least, bombazine and crepe. Calico was evidently Not Our Kind, Dear.)

I’ve heard another maxim–that there is nothing sadder than a broken toy. Personally, I believe that there’s nothing sadder than a forgotten toy. Your same correspondent who doesn’t blanch at reading graphic descriptions of the Rape of Nanking gets weepy over a dusty teddy bear in an estate auction. Whatever happened to the little kid who played with the bear? Did he grow up to be a baseball player, like he wanted to? Did she end up having the fairy-tale wedding that she dreamed about while she dressed the bear up as the groom? Or did he end up in jail; did she get smacked around by the groom from the fairy-tale wedding? What made these theoretical kids close up their old toys in a box and forget them?

So, you see, Holly Hobbie makes me rather sad. Not only are the toys themselves forgotten, but the entire idea is forgotten. I’ve also notice lately a lot of Miss Beasley dolls in yard sales and junk shops. Miss Beasley was derived from the early ‘70s TV show "Family Affair." I always thought the dolls were creepy, but all the little girls my age loved them. Either the little girls grew up to agree with me on the creepiness factor, or they just have no sentimentality for their old toys.

Fortunately, I never had any terribly faddish toys, because my parents were extremely pragmatic (and extremely tight-fisted). I had pretty traditional stuffed critters and enough toy soldiers to invade Russia, if they’d been real. I also had a barrage of toy tanks, artillery pieces, cars and fire trucks. I’m still quite nostalgic about them all. I wonder how I’d feel now if my parents had given into advertising pressure and given me "Stretch Armstrong" for Christmas one year? Poor old Stretch: I’d probably still dust off my stuffed bears and kitties and keep my little soldiers polished, but Stretch would just be a joke at the expense of an era gone–in questionable taste–forever.