From birth, I was essentially an only child. My brothers were much older. I was a girl. We lived in the country, with no close neighbors. We did not have cable. Possibly, it hadn't been invented back then. This meant that i was my own playmate. My dolls were my friends. I created elaborate storylines. They had feelings. And since my mother read Raggedy Ann and Andy books to me from birth(with the central theme being that dolls come to life when the owner leaves the room) I knew that my dolls were living, feeling, beings. I was kind to them. Tucked them in before I went to sleep. Rotated clothing and toys so they didn't get bored. And when i wasn't playing with them, I was reading.
One book in particular sparked a desire in me. For a toy. Or rather, a collection of toys. Not something advertised on Saturday morning cartoons(yes, I had the Alvin and the Chipmunks collection). Not Malibu Barbie, or Baby Skates Alot. Until this evening, I had completely forgotten about this book. And now, that i have returned the stolen library books, it will probably be next on the list of selections from the Wylie Public Library.
Emily and Charlotte have dolls that need a home, and somehow a dollhouse arrives, with beautiful furniture and accessories. As I read the descriptions, I knew that I had to have a dollhouse. I was maybe 7 or 8 at the time. As it turns out, the story has a rather dark ending, with one evil doll setting the house on fire and melting another doll, and i'm surprised that i didn't have nightmares about it. But I needed a house. And some little people to put in it.
Eventually we moved from Kansas in the middle of nowhere to Missouri and a neighborhood, and there were friends to play with and I didn't have to make up so many stories to keep myself entertained. My mother remembered my dream, though. When we visited craft stores, we would always examine the dollhouse kits. They seemed very victorian, and a little flimsy. And expensive. And eventually I came to the conclusion that dollhouses were for other people, but probably not me.
Until the Christmas of 1987, I think. I was in 5th grade. Christmas Day was cold and frozen. Eventually we lost power and spend Christmas night camped out in front of the fireplace in the house on Delaware.
Backing up a few months, somehow, at a garage sale or flea market or some other event, my mom had come into contact with a man who build dollhouses. Not the flimsy craft store variety, but real, solid houses made out of real wood. It was a small operation I think, a man built them in his garage. Called "The House that Jack Built". She decided that instead of us spending hours carpenter gluing balsa wood together for it to fall apart on a warm day, I would have a solid wood house. Unadorned. So on that icy day, the Christmas in which I think i received a new game for my Super Nintendo, I also received this:
It was exactly what I didn't know that I wanted, but absolutely I loved it. It was naked. No paint. No wallpaper. No shingles. It would have to be decorated from the ground up. The only thing that came with it was the family. Which looks pretty similar to these folks, except with brown hair. And add a baby.
They were awkward and bendy and I named them George and Mary, Janie and Tommy. Because It's a Wonderful Life. And for the next several years, the DOLLHOUSE was the project.
Mom bought a book. Recorded every single purchase we made for the house. With a promise to herself to never add it up. We tackled room by room. First painting and shingling the outside. Have you ever shingled a dollhouse? With an impatient 5th grader? Lots of hot glue strings. Everywhere. Then, there was wallpaper to buy. Carpeting. You can't just get scraps. There is paper, designed to scale. Chair rail. Molding. Then tile for the bathroom, hardwood floor for the kitchen, colors for the different bedrooms, and furniture and the list goes on and on.
We traveled frequently in the summer. My dad spoke at churches and youth camps all over the country. Mom and I made a habit of looking up the miniature stores in every city. Sometimes, a couch would be purchased. Maybe another time, a trundle bed for the little boy's room. this was not a speedy process. It was a work in progress. Always. From the queen sized bed to the salt and pepper shakers, it took all of my junior high and into my high school years to assemble. It was finally complete. When I was gone, my mother would rearrange the furniture. Which would infuriate me, because I despise change. But it was a project for the two of us. Together. To argue about. It drew us closer.
I packed up my things to move into my new, grownup apartment in 1998. The dollhouse was put away carefully. Each little accessory was carefully stored. In the attic. I probably told the Bailey family that I would be back for them some day.
And I was. When the oldest was a baby, the dollhouse seemed like a great nursery prop. Until she got old enough to walk, and managed to wriggle her chubby little hand through the first floor window to rip a painting off the wall. That was the end of the dollhouse.
Until now. I think she is old enough. It's packed away in the attic. And while we are so very different in our opinions of many things, I think that very soon, the dollhouse might serve as a bonding experience for another mother daughter pair.
Until then, Rumer Godden should tide me over.
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