By Lorry Myers
My sister called and said, “Hey, we sold our house, you have to come get your stuff?”
“What?” I said, pretending I didn’t know what she was talking about.
When our last child graduated high school, my husband and I sold the big, old two-story house where we raised our children, and downsized to a ranch style home on one level. We had no space for some of those old things, so we stored them in the basement of my sister’s big old two-story house. Actually, we didn’t just store them; we hid everything in her basement and forgot all about them.
My sister, Sherry, married a military man so they always lived away. When he retired, they permanently transferred here to be close to my parents and me. They bought a gracious Victorian home that was full of charm and a dry basement with plenty of space to store something and forget it.
Now it time to find out, what’s down there, anyway?
We had already loaded the car with an old rocker and a box or two of knick-knacks and holiday decorations that looked vaguely familiar. Down in the basement I rounded a corner and there it was, mounted on wooden risers to keep it off the floor. The dollhouse was bigger than I remembered, at least five feet long and obviously two stories tall. The blue shutters at the windows matched the blue front door that opened and closed on metal hinges. The roof was shingled with slats of wood, individually glued in a pattern to create the illusion of shake shingles on a country estate. The white columns in front of the house supported an overhead balcony and the windowpanes were sturdy plastic that mimicked glass. I touched the red chimney on my youngest daughter’s dollhouse and brushed away the cobwebs and my tears.
This was the house my father built.
For the complete column, please see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard.