LEGO (34 page)

The creations continue to pile up in the living room, and despite submitting an extensive Christmas LEGO wish list to my wife and in-laws, I’ve still bought another two sets in December. It’s as if the sets in my office have a tractor beam that keeps pulling in other sets from the toy stores in my area. For the first time, I consider hiding my purchases from Kate. That thought is quickly followed by the logical part of my brain telling me that’s exactly how you get a divorce. My moral compass settles on a compromise, and I no longer justify my spending as research.

I also discover that LEGO purchases now come with a new form of guilt. I have only recently given up feeling guilty for purchasing a child’s toy, when I find that buying toys instead of saving for my child feels terribly wrong. I imagine that all expectant fathers feel cash-poor; it’s the same feeling that gives men an excuse to avoid getting engaged or buying new clothes.

I’ve never been one to store my purchases in mint condition in the hopes that what I buy will appreciate in price. Accordingly, my LEGO collection is purely functional and definitely out of the box. And while I am excited to see what my child will build with my bricks, it seems disingenuous to pretend that I’m buying things today with the idea that they’ll be perfect when Wilbraham is six years old. (Wilbraham is the fictional, nonbinding name we gave our hypothetical first child during a road trip early in our relationship. Wilbraham happens to be a town in Massachusetts—a lovely town, I’m sure—but the name is a bit weighty for a child who is trying to learn to write it for the first time).

Yet I am buying for two. I’ve been buying for two all along—Kate and me. So now I guess I’m buying for three. Much as I had forgotten about the blue tub of LEGO bricks in the back of my childhood closet, I had conveniently ignored the fact that at some point I might want to pass on my collection. And that could happen sooner than I expected, once we pass the age where Wilbraham will try to eat LEGO pieces—this moment clearly being determined by Kate.

 

 

When you start considering the need for life insurance, you are forced to reconsider how your life is structured and what you would want done with what remains after you’re gone. On Christmas Eve, I’m flipping aimlessly through instruction books and cherry-picking minifigure accessories out of a parts box—basically killing time until we go to church with Kate’s family. But then I come across the story of Ron Eaton in the
Everett Herald
, and I start getting choked up over a man I’ve never known.

Eaton was an adult fan of LEGO who died on Christmas Day in 2007 of kidney cancer. The retired software engineer from Mill Creek, Washington, was a lifelong bachelor. His family gathered a year later, after deciding to donate his extensive LEGO collection to Toys for Tots. This isn’t just about finding a new use for old toys, it’s about a man who built his identity in LEGO bricks. I know a lot of adult fans like Eaton, and I can see why it matters to them what will happen with toys that have come to define their lives.

LEGO bricks have become my default gift this Christmas. A Star Wars fan gets a Republic airship, while a few of my friends get small sets or basketball minifigs. I’m testing the waters to see their reaction. It’s not complicated. I’m hoping some of my friends might want to come over and play with LEGO sets. And worst case, they’ll get the hint about the gifts I’m hoping to receive.

The past two years, Kate and I have driven over to my in-laws’ house on Christmas morning in our pajamas. These are special Christmas pajamas, gifts from my brother and his wife—red long underwear, the kind with the flap in the seat. So if we didn’t already feel like children, we would as soon as we unwrapped the biggest boxes under the tree.

“No way. This is awesome,” I yell. Kate has surprised me by buying the LEGO Agents Volcano Base—a lava-spouting, laser-firing, blast-door-opening 718-piece marvel. It is the best version of a Bond villain lair I have ever laid eyes on. I jump around before hugging her.

“But it was sold out. How did you get it?”

“I fought the masses on eBay and won it for you, dear,” says Kate.

I keep turning over the box to look at the parts included, forgetting that there are other gifts to open. This will go on my bureau in our bedroom, displayed as proudly as a child’s model car or a spinster’s porcelain unicorn collection. I haven’t been this happy over a gift since a bowling party in fourth grade, when I received a soccer ball beanbag chair. I was a weird kid.

I’ve never been easy to shop for around the holidays. The most exciting gift I received the previous Christmas was a paper shredder. It was the top item on my list. But this year the LEGO gifts don’t stop coming. I know that Jai Mukherjee from the licensing department at LEGO wouldn’t like what I unwrap next. It’s a Snack & Stack fork, knife, and spoon set. The three utensils are covered in primary-color, molded rubber shaped like a 1 × 7 LEGO brick (LEGO doesn’t make 1 × 7 bricks, only 1 × 7 Technic pieces). They’re a bit uncomfortable to hold, but they’ll be perfect for the baby. My mind, after a slight delay, finally adds
in a few years
to that thought.

The last box I open is the biggest. It is the Green Grocer, the second in the line of modular buildings designed by AFOL Jamie Berard. All LEGO bricks are glossy, but this set gleams. The 2,352-piece monster has essentially been created for adult fans, with a recommended build age of sixteen-plus.

“That’s a LEGO set?” asks my brother-in-law Ben.

“I know; it’s a lot different than the tub of bricks you gave me.” I explain the history of the set and what it means to adult fans. I would probably still be talking, but Kate reins me in, noting that there are still several more gifts for everyone else to open.

The architect in Ben can’t get over the level of detail on the building’s facade. The former LEGO builder inside him just thinks there are a lot of cool new parts. For my part, I chalk this up to the second time I have given Ben a chance to claim his tub of LEGO bricks—a repeat of the promise I made back in March. The LEGO has been offered and refused. Nobody can escape the logic trap of a one-sixth lawyer. This is important because Ben and his wife, Katy, have just had twins, who are here experiencing their first Christmas. I wouldn’t have believed it had you told me, but I am actively stealing blocks from babies. Ben’s bricks are going to my kid.

Everyone has Christmas traditions—the games or movies that occupy the day spent together. At my in-laws’ house, we usually sit hunched over a puzzle for hours, inevitably searching for a single errant piece to complete the increasingly larger picture made of smaller and smaller pieces. I’m counting on the idea that the puzzle has been good training for constructing a Technic set. It’s the one style of building I haven’t tried, and I really wouldn’t mind some help with the Off Roader set I purchased at the LEGO employee store in Enfield.

In a bit of hubris, I have selected a power-functioned Hummer look-alike, a behemoth at 1,097 pieces and the largest set (in any theme) I will have tackled to date. It has working headlights, hydraulics, and a motorized winch. The box is the size of a briefcase, and the tires are the size of limes. I bring the set in from the car.

“I was hoping we might all build this together instead of a puzzle this year,” I say cautiously.

“Let’s give it a shot,” says my father-in-law, Bob.

We dump the pieces onto the living room floor, where we will sit in various combinations for the next three days while completing the set. I get both my brothers-in-law involved early and establish a system wherein a parts monkey gathers the pieces for a given step in order to free up a lead builder to snap together the Technic elements. What starts out as a joint effort among four adults quickly devolves into an obsession for my father-in-law. I should have seen this coming. He is the one who continues to work on a puzzle long after the rest of us have quit.

“You have no idea what you’ve done to Bob,” says Ann, Kate’s mother, when we come back to the house two days after Christmas.

Bob waves hello from the floor, where he’s sitting with the second of two instruction booklets. He’s moved to the floor because his back is tight and sore from bending while on the couch. It’s a rookie mistake.

“I was sitting at work, worried that the cats were going to get at the parts we had left out and we wouldn’t be able to finish because of something they had hidden,” says Bob.

I am amazed by how invested my father-in-law has become in seeing us complete the Off Roader. Later, when family and friends come over to see the twins, I keep seeing Bob demonstrate how the hydraulics work and the winch on the front of the Off Roader. It strikes me that he is proud of what he has accomplished. And I’m proud of him.

When we’re done, I realize that this is the mark of an evolved builder—someone who can help teach others how to build and has relearned the grade school value about the importance of sharing. The months spent building alongside Kate have been training, teaching me the patience to help somebody else put together a set and the joy of watching them succeed. They’re the kind of skills that a father might want to have.

LEGO master model builder Gary Mclntire works to repair the nose on a maxifig sculpture inside the mini golf course at LEGOLAND California before the park opens for the day.

D
ir-tee Brick-stur. Dir-tee Brick-stur.”

The off-key chant fills the living room of the house in Oceanside, California. A LEGO witch minifigure keychain has just been stolen, and the crowd of men (and one baby) is yelling with enthusiasm. I’m a guest of the LEGOLAND master model builder Gary McIntire at the January meeting of the San Diego LEGO User Group.

To determine the order for opening the gifts, the meeting’s host, Bill Vollbrecht, thirty-eight, a master model designer at LEGOLAND, hands each person a different-color 1 × 1 cylinder. I want his collection, when it becomes apparent that he has enough colors for the fourteen men, one woman, and one baby participating. I draw sand green, which is the seventh pick out of the hat.

This LUG is stacked with high-skill-level builders because of its proximity to the park. On the coffee table rests a collection of models that have been featured prominently recently on the Brothers Brick, the most popular AFOL Web site. There’s a red Converse sneaker and an upscaled Princess Leia minifigure, in her gold bikini from when she was imprisoned by Jabba the Hutt.

“I always steal from the kid, I love it,” jokes Gary, nodding to the baby of one of his fellow LUG members.

An old McDonald’s kit is opened early, along with a number of new Star Wars sets. Then my bag is taken from the pile. This time I’m prepared. I’ve brought a Creator set that is filled with cheese wedges and translucent pieces that I know serious builders would like.

“Oh, that’s a good set,” says one of the crowd.

“That’s a really good set,” confirms someone else.

Nobody knows I brought it, but I can’t help smiling. I’ve solved the Dirty Brickster. Then my turn comes to pick, and I immediately panic, snatching a Stormtrooper set that I could get at any Toys “R” Us for $9.99. A few halfhearted “Dir-tee Brick-sturs” follow my theft.

“I’ve really wanted one of these,” I mumble. Nobody will steal it from me. In a Dirty Brickster with four current LEGOLAND employees, the pickings are rich. I should not be the one guessing which is the Holy Grail if it ever comes to it, because I have chosen poorly.

I console myself as I always do, by buying more LEGO sets. One of the LUG members, Bruno Todd, is sharing the wealth from a recent clearance purchase. I grab two small starter sets, a classic space vehicle, and a street sweeper from the display that stands next to the couch. The street sweeper is for Kate. I know she’ll appreciate that the James Lipton minifig continues to find work.

“Want to see something?” asks Bruno.

“Absolutely,” I reply. I have never been disappointed when an AFOL has asked me that; it’s some sort of code for “get ready to be amazed.” Bruno holds up a small black box stamped with white writing that says “Modulex.” Inside is a jumble of 1 × 4 sea-foam green bricks that look like miniaturized LEGO bricks.

“I just got these off eBay; the guy had no idea they were in the original boxes,” says Bruno.

I’m looking at the predecessor to Adam Tucker’s Brickstructures and an idea of Godtfred Kirk Christiansen’s from the 1960s that was probably before its time. Godtfred was building a new house and wanted a scale version of his architectural plans. The 6:5 aspect ratio of the standard LEGO bricks didn’t work, so Godtfred had bricks with a 1: 1 aspect ratio molded for him.

The bricks produced were about five-eighths the size of a regular LEGO brick. This inspired Godtfred to launch a new company, Modulex A/S, in 1963. The specialty bricks were marketed to industrial planners and architects. Although the Modulex Planning System was primarily adapted by planners, the Finnish American architect Eero Saarinen, the designer of the St. Louis Gateway Arch, was known for creating prototypes out of Modulex and LEGO bricks. Today Modulex is one of the largest architectural sign companies in the world.