When moving out of my house (separation, bitch kicked me out, damn her to eternal torment) I recovered my salesman's sample case (or pilot's map case, take your pick) of D&D stuff from where it had been relegated to the back of the portable hole that was the garage.
I'd last used my dice bag to teach my 7 year old what "Pythagorean Solids" were, with pretty, 30 year old, clear "crystal" dice.
I just checked, there are no version numbers on my hard-back books, but they were published in 1978 and 1979, with "Monster Manual II" from 1983.
There's also a, well, not "simplified" so much as "hard core" "what's left after the chaff has been removed" role playing rule system in a flat box in that same case called Rolemaster by Iron Crown Enterprises,
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rolemaster but while the Wikipedia entry lists 1995 as their earliest date, mine is dated 1982.
Even taking into account the "Disney Monopoly Jr." version of D&D that the 4.5 sounds like from people's descriptions here, I think what matters is not so much the system as the people you're playing with.
I had a BLAST 1978-1983, playing with about 10 regulars, we got to know each other's styles, characters, and generally became a "team" in the best sense.
I don't like "figures" unless or until it's "As soon as the last of your party enters the room, the door slams shut and the room is suddenly flooded with light! Ok, let's figure out where everyone is, here's a map of the room that you can now see, and here are the bad-guys...."
And I also really don't care how it is that you fit a 10 foot pole into your backpack, or carry 80 lbs of stuff and your armor all day long. It's a GAME.
Speaking of which, I suffered under near total writer's block until I was 22. I figured that out when I first saw "Throw Mamma From The Train" and saw Billy Crystal's wonderful loathing, depression and frustration, "The night was.... THE NIGHT WAS..... AAAAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!" and recognized what I had felt every time I tried to write for most of my life.
What broke the spell for me was accidentally running across an episode of "The 700 Club" in '84 or '85 where some dipshit of a "father" was bemoaning D&D and how his son had killed himself because of the game, having spent most of every day playing for years and finally doing something spectacular and would later be termed "Gothic" to end his miserable life.
Not one moment of thought by that "father" about how he "didn't know his son played that game, or even what it was, until going through my boy's things after his death."
Maybe, oh Holier Than Thou ass-wipe, your son's depression had something to do with the fact that you IGNORED HIM?
My never-sent all-night-long endless letter to The 700 Club and that asshole was the first time I had been able to write an "essay" (blech puke spew hate that word) without agony.
I think I'll keep the books and stuff, it's nearing time to introduce my daughter to the joys of, "It's an oak door on iron hinges. It's closed. What do you do?"