Phyllis Baskerville of Fortville needs a home. She is not homeless, but she fears that her prized collection of antique toys will be someday.
I first met Phyllis in 2002 while doing a live TV segment with Fortville resident Paul Dyer, quite a collector himself with more than a dozen old-time calliopes and player pianos, all in “dire” need of Paul’s expertise. When the show concluded, I headed for my car as a spunky 75-year-old woman in her pick-up truck accosted me (Phyllis says she “approached me,” but that’s not the way I remember it) and asked me to follow her home. “I have somewhere else I have to go,” I told her. “This will be worth your time,” she shot back.
Minutes later I pulled up in front of a Pentecostal church, which made me wonder if this was just a thinly veiled attempt to convert me. What I saw when I entered the sanctuary was heavenly. There in front of me, mostly on the floor, taking up every available space, were thousands of classic toys, all in mint condition, many in the original boxes. Memories flooded back as I saw board games, wind-up toys, lunchboxes, and dolls that I had not seen in 50 years. “This is a TV show,” I told Phyllis, assuming that was her intent in seeking me. “Not now,” she countered. “Not until I get everything on shelves. “We soon struck a deal. I did that show when all was still in disarray, then returned a year later to show the progress she had made. The next year she opened the Dolly Mama’s toy museum in Fortville.
There is more to this story, of course. And that story begins in Florida in 1998 where Phyllis and her husband, a former district fire chief in Indianapolis, had retired. When he developed Alzheimer’s, Phyllis was overwhelmed, as many caregivers are. “I went to a support group meeting,” said Phyllis, “but that wasn’t for me…I don’t need someone else’s problems. I’m living it. I need something else.”
That something else began with a few dolls she had in her home, which soon mushroomed into so many toys that they filled several rooms. When her husband’s condition worsened, they moved to Indy—toys and all—to be close to her daughters, but by then the collection had gotten a little overwhelming. “Oh my God, what have I done?” said Phyllis. “My kids are gonna think I’m crazy.” That’s when she decided to open a museum.
So Phyllis purchased the then-vacant Fortville church and continued her search, assisted by her daughters who religiously took Phyllis to garage sales, antique shows and consignment shops in search of each next piece of everyone’s childhood.
Now, as Phyllis nears her 90th birthday, she desperately seeks assurance that her collection will remain intact, hopefully as a museum. Many people have offered to buy individual pieces, but nothing (NOTHING, she repeats quite assertively) is for sale. “I need somebody to adopt my collection, keep my family of toys together and give them a good home.”
The museum is now officially closed. Her normal tour lasted 90 minutes with Phyllis pointing out her favorites. “See that O.J. Simpson board game?… see that Gund doll? You’ll never see anything like that again.” Every toy had to be in working condition, so she often interrupted her own play-by play to wind up her punching nun or to set in motion Robbie the Robot.
If you tune into WISH-TV between 6 and 9 a.m. on Oct. 4, you can see the museum on my television segment. And Phyllis is right. You will never see anything like this again.
Note: You can reach Phyllis through me at [email protected]
