John B. Marek is a storyteller with dirt under his nails who weaves tales inspired by a lifetime immersed in nature. His insightful essays and award-winning fiction delve into the complexities of sustainable living, the heart of rural communities and the thrill of outdoor adventure. You can find more of his writing at johnbmarek.com.
As a professional writer and avid reader, my love for bookstores should come as no surprise. While I cherish the quaint, intimate charm of independent bookshops that grace Main Streets across the country, I must confess to a guilty pleasure: frequenting the sprawling “big box” stores as well. Nestled in Birkdale Village, within walking distance of my home, my local Barnes & Noble has become a literary sanctuary. Its café is a makeshift office where I occasionally find myself engrossed in the latest bestseller or tapping away at my laptop.
The evolution of these retail giants fascinates me. Once solely purveyors of bound pages, they’ve diversified into cultural emporiums. When the Birkdale Barnes & Noble opened in 2001, in addition to books, its shelves were lined with CDs and DVDs, relics of an era before streaming services revolutionized our consumption of music and film. Now, as I meander through the aisles, I’m struck by the eclectic array of merchandise that seems almost incongruous in a bookstore.
A substantial corner of my local B&N has morphed into what can only be described as a high-end toy store. As a self-proclaimed “childless dog gentleman,” I seldom venture into this colorful realm of playthings. However, on a recent visit, my eye was caught by an astonishing sight: a meticulously crafted model Corvette, constructed entirely from Lego bricks, with an equally astonishing price tag of $150. The intricacy and sophistication of this miniature masterpiece left me in awe, yet also nostalgic for the simpler, low-cost Lego sets of my childhood.
The Lego sports car model demonstrates how far the iconic Danish toy has come since its humble beginnings in 1932. When I was a child in the late ’60s and early ’70s, Lego was already a household name, but the sets were markedly different from today’s elaborate creations. Back then, Lego bricks came in a limited palette of primary colors – red, yellow, blue and white – with the occasional green baseplate. The charm lay in their simplicity and versatility. Our sets consisted mainly of basic square and rectangular bricks and a few windows, doors and wheels, allowing us to construct rudimentary houses, cars and whatever else our imaginations could conjure. The joy was in the open-ended play, where a pile of multicolored blocks could become a castle one day and a spaceship the next. My specialty was sailing ships, elaborate, albeit blocky, creations with forecastles, cannon ports and billowing paper sails. There were no specialized pieces, no licensed themes and certainly no instruction booklets rivaling the complexity of architectural blueprints. It was a time when a child’s creativity was the only limit to what could be built. Today’s Lego sets are more like the plastic model kits of my era, taking hours to put together and then displayed on a shelf as a testament to the builder’s skill.
My unexpected B&N discovery led me to reflect on the changing nature of play, consumerism and the evolving role of bookstores in our digital age. As I stood there, admiring the Lego car’s classic lines and imagining the hours of enjoyment it might bring to an enthusiast, I couldn’t help but wonder: In this era of touchscreens and instant gratification, do such elaborate toys serve to ignite creativity, or do they represent a commodification of imagination itself? While the sophistication of modern Lego sets is undoubtedly impressive, part of me mourns the simpler times when a handful of colorful bricks could spark endless possibilities in a child’s mind.