In Cuba, my generation (born in the 60s) didn’t get to know the Three Wise Men who, in most Spanish-speaking countries, bring gifts to kids on January 6^th. Some families kept the tradition after 1959, but mine didn’t, sadly. All we had was Children’s Day, the third Sunday of July.

Children’s Day actually lasted six days, the only time when toys were sold in the stores, distributed through the ration card. The shopping turns were assigned by a secret lottery.

Those lucky enough to be assigned the first day could choose the toys they liked. Those stuck with the sixth day, well, they got the leftovers—whatever no one else had wanted.

Each child was allotted three toys: basic, non-basic, and “directed.” (It would be fascinating to investigate the etymology of those names… Directed by whom?) Anyway. The basic toy was the largest and most attractive, like a bicycle or a dollhouse. The non-basic toy was less fancy—a kitchen set, maybe. The “directed” toy could be jump rope or a ball.

Lady Luck didn’t usually favor me. Most years I was assigned a mediocre shopping day—third, fourth, or, at worst, sixth. But my mother and Topeo would buy toys from parents with older daughters who were no longer interested in playthings or just needed the money. That’s how I ended up with this dollhouse that I kept well into my teenage years.

Once, I even got a nurse’s kit with a cape and a cap.

Here I am with a Steiff dog named Snobby (we didn’t buy it on Children’s Day; someone sold it to us) and a stuffed cat sent by Guillermina, one of my grandmother’s sisters who lived in Miami.

I also had several dolls but didn’t play with them often. They looked creepy and zombie-like.

In truth, I didn’t spend much time playing with any of my toys. Sometimes I’d set up the dollhouse or the farm (which was cute, with cows, horses, ducks, and shepherds), but the fun was in putting everything in its place. Once it was all arranged, there wasn’t much left to do, as I, an only child, didn’t always have playmates around.

The Buttons

My favorite pastime was playing with buttons, named and grouped into families and neighborhoods. I kept them in a large tin box divided into small compartments.

There were child buttons, who went to school, and adult buttons who had their own careers, like a mother-of-pearl flower-shaped button named Dr. Carmina. She was married to José Arturo, a brown, four-holed button who worked as a bus inspector. (The buses were empty matchboxes.) It was a very elaborate game that required no company beyond my imagination.

Looking back, I think those buttons were my first characters. I invented detailed backstories for them. There were fights, romances, and reconciliations—plots that stretched on, like a soap opera, for weeks or months.

Even now, I can recall the names and appearances of many buttons. And sometimes, when I see a pretty one loose somewhere, I feel like slipping it into my pocket and adding it to the collection—the tin box that exists now only in my memory.

Happy Three Kings Day!