In my formative years, as a product of the 1950s, I pretended I was Dale Evans. My down-the-street neighbor was Roy Rogers. He was just a year older than me when we played Dale and Roy and we were both around the age of four and five. I ran down to his house, rang the front doorbell, his mother would answer, and I asked, “Can Roy come out to play?”

I had the entire cowgirl outfit. I was dressed in Dale’s solid red shirt with a plaid kerchief and a faux suede jacket with fringe. There was a round skirt and I kept a holster around my waist for my toy gun. I wore white majorette boots. My cowgirl hat was tan and I wore tan gloves so I wouldn’t chap my hands while pretending to ride my horse, Buttermilk. My childhood friend dressed similar to Roy, well, as best he could. I am sure he didn’t put as much effort into it as I.

Having my own children and catering to their imaginations, when the oldest was around four, his pretend play consisted of Popeye, Robin Hood, Superman, or Dick Tracy. I even let him wear his costumes to the grocery store or other public places. People greeted him and said something like, “Hi there, Superman!” or whoever he was that day.

One rainy day while dressed as Dick Tracy with his yellow hat, yellow overcoat, and two-way wrist radio watch, I tried to figure out what would interest him, so I took him to the city’s police station. When we walked inside, I looked directly into the eyes of the lady at the front desk, all the while shaking my head in the negative when I asked her, “Is Dick Tracy here today?” I had to ask twice because, at first, she didn’t understand my questioning and where I was going with it, but seeing mini-Dick Tracy, she put two and two together while I continued shaking my head for her realize I wanted her to say no.

She did.

“Why, uh, no, he isn’t,” she said.

“But he does have a desk here, right? I mean, his desk is in his office even though he is not available?”

This time she got my drift as I nodded in the affirmative behind my son’s back.

“Why, yes, he has an office here. I can show you where he works,” she commented as she pointed to a closed door.

And when she opened the door, there sat an empty desk with papers scattered all over it as though someone was busy at work and had been called away in a rush. I turned to our oldest and said, “See, honey? Dick Tracy is out catching criminals and isn’t at his desk. He’s very busy. We tried.”

If you are looking for something to do, maybe on a rainy day to make it fun but doesn’t cost money…just entertain your child or grandchild by taking them someplace that doesn’t really exist, make up a story that one day you can retell or write about to embarrass your children…or yourself.