Any collection of childhood memories must contain at least one Slinky. We would never tire of making them ‘walk’ down the stairs. A simple metal coil of nearly perfect design, the Slinky becomes gravity’s child, coming down the stairs with a methodical and persistent pace.
The Slinky would inevitably get knotted up and defy any attempt at unraveling. Brute force often resulted in the dreaded Bent Slinky syndrome followed by the concept of Trashcan Slinky. We had a neighborhood kid who had mastered the mystic art of untangling Slinkies. He would come over and we would hand him the messed-up Slinky. In a few minutes he would unwind it and hand it back to us, the entire transaction taking place in silence. It would have been better if he had said “Voila” (or “walla” for the linguistically challenged).
Metal not plastic. I never owned a plastic Slinky and I believe to this day that a sentence containing the words “plastic” and “Slinky” violates some fundamental Law of Toys. Eagle-eyed readers will note that the previous sentence violates the very law it describes. One of those cool self-referential thingamabobs.
Apparently the Slinky has recently been reincarnated as a kind of squirrel defense, a protector of bird feeders against a veritable army of cute yet evil gray marauders. Why the birds remain unimpressed remains a mystery for others to solve.
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