. . . "we" being my one-year-older brother and I. We grew up in the prime of their popularity, but we never owned or read one; so this latest book-banning nonsense doesn't hit me viscerally (at least, no more viscerally than any book-banning does). I've looked at a few since, and I can't say I'm impressed. Silliness is fine, but it's not enough, even for toddlers.
What we had was Uncle Wiggily:
(. . . and for my entire life, up until yesterday, I didn't realize that it was spelled "Wiggily," not "Wiggly.")
These stories were from an older generation -- Howard Garis started writing them for newspapers in 1910. Perhaps our parents remembered them fondly, bought them for our older sister, and then recycled them for us. And I bet they sometimes regretted it. Boy, did we love Uncle Wiggily. We demanded an Uncle Wiggily story be read to us every night. Every night. Again and again.
The part we liked most was the very end, which always took the form: "and next, if [something surreal and improbable] doesn't happen, I'll tell you the story of . . ." Here's a couple:
"So if the doorknob doesn't try to crawl through the keyhole to play bean bag with the rice pudding in the gas stove oven, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and the elephant."
"So if the pussy cat doesn't claw the tail off the letter Q and make it look like a big, round O, I'll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and the little boy's skates."
I'm not going to start buying up Uncle Wigglys at yard sales and hiding them under the floorboards. I can't remember anything even remotely offensive from the stories; though I guess if you tried hard enough, you could work up some outrage about the Skeezicks: