My mother was cleaning out her attic and found our old dollhouses. This is the little dollhouse my father made for me. It is the smaller and the first of two, and the one that seems to really strike a chord with me. Though I had forgotten about it memories and emotions came rushing back as soon as I saw it. Sometimes, I’m sure, it is easy to take for granted the relics of our childhood, forgetting that in many cases they embody memories that would otherwise fade and pass away. Things like this are precious. So I took it home.
It is a very lovely house. It has my fathers trademark style – impeccably built and designed with the same attention you would expect for a full sized house. My favourite parts: the real chimney that goes all the way down to the fire place and the little red back door. Note the tell-tale scribbles of our decorating efforts. As I was cleaning it today I had a vague notion that it may have been a Christmas present, which I think would make the colour choices particularly appropriate. And I’m pretty sure we has a little family of mice that lived in it.
And what really makes the house is the curve of the front edge. It makes the whole thing look like it is bursting to be lived and played in and even without furniture or occupants you get the sense that is is a full and cozy home.