My Mom, brother and I have a date after Christmas this year. While all of Mom’s Christmas decorations are out, cheering up the living room and kitchen, we are going upstairs to the attic to liberate all of the treasures my brother and I have packed away as we grew. J and I have been asking to get up there for several years now, especially since we both have had our own children, but Mom has been putting us off. “Oh, you have time for that later! … Wait until you have more room! …” It finally occurred to me that, in order for J or I to get our things, Mom has to get her things out of the way! So, we all have a date for sorting through the attic. J and I promised to help Mom sort out her treasures and put them back in the attic and we’ll take our boxes to our current homes.
Until this last week, I’d been mentally cataloging my old toys: Strawberry Shortcake, Barbies, Sea Wees, dolls, dolls, dolls. And the books! My Nancy drew collection, CS Lewis, all those bad ghost stories, the Dolls in the Attic, … so many more! But an errant photo on Pinterest sent me down a trail past a long forgotten pastime: my dollhouse. Oh, Brae of Otterine, and your incredible talent! Why resurrect this long dead dream? Why must I now be cataloging my miniatures: that Chrysenbon bathroom kit, those 3 dozen “Nutshell News” magazines, the new stair set for the addition that I wasn’t sure how to install all those years ago, but now your blog has shown me how? Now, when space and time are the most problematic for me?!
I know it’s up there. I know we’ll be pulling its sheet shrouded form from deep behind the walls and catacombs of my dusty childhood soon. I know the last thing I need is a new major project.
I’ll need to find a place to put it.