Every year at toy fair, two floors down from me at the Gramercy Park Hotel, was my agent and dear friend A. A wizened, bearded old communist (that is, I believe, one who lives on a commune), an afficianado of whiskey, women, cigarettes, and scuba diving, A was and likely still is a Man’s Man. For years I would look forward to ending a day of meetings down in A’s room smoking cigarettes, sipping whiskey, and secretly admiring the exotic beauty of his daughter.   

            

My friend got his start as a heavy equipment mover, and during the 6-day war he pillaged and plundered on behalf of the Israeli army, in the tradition of conquering armies that dates back thousands of years, no doubt. Once he moved an 80-ton crane from a defeated enemy city to the port of Haifa where it is in use still. This crane is a monument to persistence, perspiration, and ingenuity - which are the sources of all great things. 

            

 

 

It was a bit tricky for A to get that crane across the sands of the Sahara, but even trickier to cross the Suez canal. The problem: All they had to get across the canal were the sectioned, floating bridges favored by armies on the move, the kind that bend and flex at the hinges as one crosses. If the flex at the hinge were to move just a bit too far, this 80-ton behemoth, even taken apart into halves, would have gotten stuck and have to be dynamited, bridge and all, into the bottom of the Suez. That would block ship traffic until it could be removed - a most undesireable outcome. 

            

 

 

So my friend, an expert in his element, sharpened his pencil, fired up his slide rule, or perhaps he had a primitive military calculator back then, and did all the necessary calculations. Yes, they could get it across. The bridge bent and flexed, hinged and groaned, sections sinking as the massive crane inched across. The bridge sections came within less than two inches of bending too far and jamming and forcing the destruction of their spoils of war. 

            

After all that A got into the toy business, I'm not quite sure how. He is now retired to a life of scuba diving and appreciating the fairer sex. 

 

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After that we decided to explore our lodging options and stumbled upon the once grand, historically rich Gramercy Park Hotel, located in the last privately owned park in NYC, if not the USA. Humphrey Bogart was married in the rooftop gardens of the Gramercy, as was the Kennedy boy who later crashed his plane.

 

 

 

The Gramercy fit like an old shoe. It was a bit run down at the heels, in a grand old neighborhood that has since become quite trendy. It was close to the toy building, and still would be if we hadn’t lost our landmark Toy Center of the World, (boo hoo), and We (that is the royal We, as it was largely me) could hoof it back and forth several times a day as needed.

 

 

We had an actual apartment in the hotel during many of those years - chipped and faded, but big, and perfect for client meetings. It was to this apartment overlooking the park that I brought my family during Thanksgiving of 2001 in support and out of respect for the Great City of New York - the greatest city on Earth. (Except for Chicago, which is the greatest city on Earth, also.)  

 

            

Nuremberg Hotels are extraordinarily expensive during the toy show, and to save money I took to staying in a fifth floor walk-up attic room at the venerable downtown hotel, The Merkur. Once again, the room was so small I could touch both walls at once, and as it was the attic room, I couldn’t sit up in bed without bumping my head on the slope of the ceiling.

            

 

My little garret room had a great view of Nuremberg rooftops, though. It also had a bathroom down the hall shared by other unknown and unseen denizens of attic garrets - an uncomfortable arrangement, but a cheap one. While the rest of the city booked up a year in advance, my little room was always available, and not only because getting up the steep, narrow stairs with suitcases required mutiple trips.

 

 

 

And did I mention it was cheap?

 

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Ah, the smell of flowers - New York in the Spring! Well, not quite Spring really . . . more like February. 

            

 

 

New York in February brings back such fond memories. Blizzards shutting the city down, being unable to get to New York from Chicago for love nor money, being unable to get back to Chicago from New York, being unable to get to meetings across town, streets lined with piles of snow on every corner and ponds of melting snow to cross at every intersection. Hell in dress shoes. You can’t get a cab in a blizzard, either, so walking is often the only way to go. “Shanks mare,”  my mother used to say. I have no idea what it means, but it may have something to do with walking. 

 

 

            

During Lund and Company's first Toy Fair long ago we found ourselves in a welfare hotel. I'm not sure we have those here in Chicago. There were paying guests on some floors, and not so much on others. This was fine except when visitors from one floor stole your pants when you were in the shower. Mike Ferris, God rest his sweet soul, had just that happen, and not surprisingly, his arrival at the toy building was a bit delayed that first day.

 

 

 

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During my first few Toy Fairs in Nuremburg I stayed in private homes that took in boarders. One night I sat in the basement with the man whose home I was staying in sharing memories and stories, me in broken German and he in broken English. 

 

 

Over a few German beers our tongues were loosened and we communicated just fine. (Ich verstehe nur ein bischen Deutch.) We both loved trains. I told him of the train set my father made for me that I played with in my basement, and he told me that as a boy during WWII, he sat in his basement as the bombs rained down destruction all around him and Nuremburg was leveled. That pretty much ended the conversation for the evening. 

 

 

            

German breakfasts are a thing of beauty. Meats, cheeses, and breads in abundance. I would go back to Germany just for that - and the Frauleins, of course. 

 

 

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It's Toy Fair time again!

            

As I write this my colleagues are back from the spectacular lights of Hong Kong and will soon be on their way to the mammoth German toy fair in the medieval city of Nuremburg, rebuilt from nothing but rubble after the war. After that it's on to London for the UK toyfair complete with bangers and mash and warm, delicious British beers. 

            

  

 

During my first trip to London, when the Toy Fair was in the cozy venue of Earl’s Court just off the High Street, I had a hotel room no bigger than a long closet and I could touch opposing walls of my room with outstretched arms. Each year I went back the warmth of the pubs and the diminutive size of the rooms amazed me. British food is basic, and as a meat and potatoes kinda guy, I thought it just fine. 

 

 

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I recall Sept 11, 2001, back at our old office on Rockwell Street, watching with horror the events of that morning. Gritting our collective teeth, we went back to what we were doing, creating the products we were creating, because to do otherwise would have allowed the terrorists to succeed in disrupting us and what we do. We would not let them do that to us, we owed it to all not to be terrorized, but to continue on with a stiff upper lip. Soldier on.

            

 

 

I recall taking my kids to New York City for Thanksgiving of that year, with the express purpose of showing solidarity, respect, love and support for New York and her heroic populace, for the staff of Gramercy Hotel where I have stayed during toy fairs and other visits for two decades.  

            

I guess when the dust settles, it may be time to take a trip to Haiti, to see the country and the people, to spend money as an expression of support - so that one day they may no longer be a pariah nation treated by all as if they were Untouchable. God bless Haiti and her people, and may God Bless all who have come to her aid.  

 

 

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That is my story, and I am sticking with it.

 

I have not had a mumbling word to write or share in weeks, and my only explanation is that I have been kidnapped by aliens and returned like a Christmas gift that wasn’t quite what you wanted. Better luck to them next time in finding a representative example of our species.

            

So much has been going on since I last visited with you: the catastrophe in Haiti, Christmas Day Bomber, the CES show, HK Toy show, UK Toy show, Nuremburg Toy show. In the world of Lund and Company we have been flying to Hong Kong to save a major product in development, going to China to work directly with the factory, preparing for the upcoming New York Toy Fair . . . Where to begin? What to say?                      

 

Whew. In light of what is happening in the world around us, talking about our day to day troubles, about the toy industry, and our little corner of the world seems trivial. But it is what we do and it is the contribution that we make, so I guess we need to keep doing it to the very best of our abilities. 

 

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Not too many years ago I met a couple elderly gentleman here in Chicago, who in their eighties were just setting up a new office. As I got to know them I learned that they were part of an elite crew of US airmen that protected London from the onslaught of the German V-2 rocket bombs that pummeled that city late in WWII. 

 

Unknown here, but heroes in England, they flew in pairs, one flying station over France to spot rocket launches out of Germany, and others flew station waiting over the English Channel to intercept the rockets. When a V-2 rocket was launched the spotters would radio ahead to those awaiting them over the waters of the English Channel. These flyers would dive down toward the rockets and gain enough speed to catch up with them. At first the US airmen tried using their guns to destroy the rockets, causing the them to blow up and destroying their own planes in the process. 

            

Needing a new tactic, my friend was one of the first to fly one of the modified P-52 fighters with reinforced, squared-off tips on its right wings. They would fly alongside the rocket and nudge it gently with their wings to tip it out of its trajectory, causing it to fall harmlessly into the English Channel or some seaside farmer's field. 

            

Wow! I would give a body part to have been a part of that. It was amazing to meet a man who had actually done that and been a hero to a nation. I saw a protester on the street the other day, with a sign that said ‘War never solved anything.' How about stopping the Nazis and Japan from taking over the world -does that count?

 

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