We spent almost more time outside than inside our house on Soi Santisuk. Each day after our lunch on the patio, my mother said, “Go outside and play,” and it wasn’t a suggestion. The plan was to get comfortable with her book and take a short nap in her room. After that, she’d sew our dresses to strains of “Killing Me Softly,” “We’ve Only Just Begun,” or Mantovani-orchestrated favorites. This after a long morning of managing lessons for a somewhat uncooperative homeschooler and setting up language studies for her colleagues.

We always found stuff to occupy us. Objects that adults find to be mundane and utilitarian are often inviting to kids. For example, we developed a fascination with the windows girding the house, to which the wrap-around sidewalk gave us complete access. Specifically, we liked to peek in and “spy” on family members absorbed in their daily activities.

Why this was a sport, I’m not sure. No one was up to anything interesting. My little brother once was in our room bent over his toys, taking no notice of my sister and me. His obliviousness gave us the giggles, as usual, and as we tried to dash away, I whammed my head against a yellow shutter. As usual. There we crouched, me rubbing my head, our flight paralyzed by pain and laughter.

Another time, we dared to look in on our mother, who was lying in bed reading before she dozed off. Reading was hilarious, and as we tried to hold our snickers down, they exploded into snorts, ruining our furtiveness. My mom looked up. “What are you doing?” she demanded. Lucky for us, there were no spankings dealt that day. My mother meant business and was not to be messed with. But we could experiment with daring novelties occasionally and emerge with merely a bump on the head.

The big slab of cement out back hosted many—perhaps most—of our activities. We weren’t allowed to drag a lot of toys outside, but once I  had a small doll in my hands and I was tossing and catching it, flinging it high. My attraction to doll-tossing may have had something to do with our enjoyment of a Thai children’s game that was similar to pick-up sticks. Equipment consisted of a cluster of ten chopsticks and a fresh lime, and we played often with the neighbor kids. One came to enjoy the weight of the round green fruit nestled in the palm, the graceful launch of it leaving the hand, its brief suspension several feet above us, and the small thwack as it landed securely enclosed in one’s fingers.  The doll wasn’t quite so aerodynamic, but I found it satisfying enough.

Unfortunately, I threw too high and in too much of an arc, and the toy came to rest on our tiled roof. I was standing near the house, so why this outcome was a shock to me, I’m not certain. Dolls, though, weren’t like other toys. They were like diminutive persons, with a whisper of personality. This little lady wasn’t my primary doll, but still. With no way to retrieve the item, I had to move on to the next activity.

Some weeks later, my older brother, then about ten years old and always up to something unusual, found a way to climb onto the roof. It was incongruous to see him up there on top of the house, wandering around. And he located the little casualty from my ill-advised tossing game.  I had forgotten about her. There she was, with her soft rubber face partially melted, her features distorted. Poor thing, with her lying relentlessly in its rays, the sun had probably beat down, the only relief a soaking rainstorm. I likely disposed of her without dwelling on it too much longer, but I learned to take more notice of what was around me, particularly when launching sentient toys.