There’s a Dennis the Menace doll in a storage container in my garage.

My father gave it to me 62 years ago. The Dennis the Menace doll, which collectors on the Internet claim can fetch as much as $150 today depending upon its’ condition, has quite a story behind it.

My mother wanted to name me Robert so all three of her sons would have the same initials — Richard, Ronald and Robert.

My dad, though, put his foot down. He didn’t want people in Lincoln to think I was named after that “blankety-blank” Robert Tofft.  

I was told this conversation took place the day after I was born. The Roseville hospital staff was pressing for a name for the birth certificate. Dad went downstairs for a while and came back with the name “Dennis.”

Mom liked the name. After, the paperwork was done mom asked dad what inspired him to come up with “Dennis”.

His reply, according to what I’ve been told, he was flipping through the comic section of the Sacramento Bee in the lobby and came across the Dennis the Menace comic strip.

It could have been worse. The Alley Oop comic strip could have caught his attention.

Robert Tofft, by the way, happened to be the patriarch of the Tofft family that owned Tofft Hardware. It was an upstart hardware company that opened for business in Lincoln in 1891, some five years after Wyatt Hardware first opened.

As luck would have it, my mother worked for Robert Tofft before she met my dad.

She ended up working at both Wyatt Hardware stores — first in Roseville and then in Lincoln.

Back in the heydays of hardware, Wyatt Hardware was top of the heap. In Roseville when it was the size Ripon is today, we had the lion’s share of the miscellaneous hardware business involving Southern Pacific workers who needed an item that the railroad company stores didn’t stock.

In Lincoln, my dad will tell you we were the Cadillac and Tofft Hardware was the Chevrolet. We had sporting goods, Tofft didn’t.

It was back in the days when sporting goods also meant Converse sneakers, basketballs, baseball equipment and such.

There were no Air Jordans, no fancy athletic shoe stores.

Wimps went to Gallenkamps in Roseville Square and bought Keds.

Real guys went to the hardware store and purchased either black and white or — if they were show-offs — white Converse canvas sneakers found on shelves beneath the fishing tackle right next to the cases of ammunition.

Even though my parents charged themselves the wholesale price for items they bought from the store, the price of the white high top converse — “the” shoe to own in 1963 among many trendy teens — was simply too extravagant.

It was $8.95 per pair retail versus $7.95 for the more pedestrian “low-tops” that were black and white.

Also from my mom’s perspective, the white shoes — that were more off-white than anything else — were simply too hard to keep clean and needed frequent washing.

Nike — on its website —offers six easy steps” to clean your shoes. It involves a shoe brush, dish soap, baking soda, toothbrush, soft clean cloth, suede brush, leather conditioner and white vinegar.

My mom washed tennis shoes by tossing them in the washing machine with a scoop of Dash.

Converse were functional shoes back then, not high-priced fashion status symbols. That said, the brand you wore on the playground did make a statement that you were serious about playing sports.

Dad bought me the Dennis the Menace doll for my fifth birthday. He thought it was funny.

The doll was kept at the store to supposedly occupy my time when both dad and mom were working.

Sometimes he would tease me unmercifully about it and customers would laugh.

I didn’t like being teased and usually ended up crying by the huge bins of nails next to the rolls of chain in the backroom. The teasing ended when my mother would sternly say, “Fred Beermann Wyatt,” and nothing more.

You knew mom meant business because adults only utter middle names when they are really mad.

I was too young to understand the razzing. I just remember never wanting to play with the Dennis the Menace doll.

I wanted to throw it away. Instead, my mom tucked into the back reaches of a closet.

Most of the time when I was at the store, I pestered my father to let me help. At first, I was given a feather duster to keep the paint cans clean. That wasn’t enough to keep me occupied. Soon I graduated to items in the front part of the store.

After one particular day when I dusted the Pyrex and dishware with a stern warning to be careful, my dad gave me a nickel.

I remember I could hardly wait to go across the street to the Brown Mug when my dad usually had lunch. It was my favorite place to be with Dad.

It was a typical ice cream fountain of the day.

There was the wonderful smell of vanilla and the icy feel of real leather in cushy booth seats that you literally sunk into. The Brown Mug was always cold and the milk shakes always perfect.

Flush with my new earned wealth, I was determined I was going to pay. I insisted on the bill. My dad played along, as I put the tag on the counter with my nickel and peered over the smooth, marble-like edge.

I had finally arrived. I was working just like my dad and paying my own bills.

I’ve always associated the Dennis the Menace doll with the bad memories — and the good ones — from the family store in Roseville.

I can’t help but wonder what dad would be thinking now if he were alive and realized people are willing to pay up to $150 for a Dennis the Menace doll.

Given that is 15th the price of a new 1957 Chevy Bel Air station wagon — the last new family vehicle he ever purchased, he probably would have kept it in the box and not let me get anywhere near it.

Still, I hated the Dennis the Menace doll complete with red overalls and the trademark horizontal light blue and white striped shirt.

To this day I will never consider buying a shirt with horizontal stripes because of the doll.

Go figure. A doll I couldn’t stand after a round of unmerciful teasing by my dad I’ve kept for years now I wouldn’t part with it for $1,000.

This column is the opinion of editor, Dennis Wyatt, and does not necessarily represent the opinions of The Bulletin or 209 Multimedia. He can be reached at dwyatt@mantecabulletin.com