The Doll House

I don't know what set me to thinking about it, as I hadn't for quite some time. Yet lately, the memory of a two story Victorian dollhouse I had built for my daughter keeps emerging. Every minute detail just so from the house number (1992 the year it was made) to the twisting grand staircase that led from lower to upper floors, stained and hand-polished to a soft glow. No slap and dash venture, my son and I spent months working in secret on it. In his room on the plastic cloth where normally a model car would be strewn, shingles laid - each being hand-stained for the roof.
In my mind's eye, I can see each room - hear our hushed giggles in memories corridor as we tried our best to 'wallpaper', or create flooring. Funds were limited, and we did our best with found materials. Remnants and such. Josh was around 11 at the time. I can still remember his face beaming at me, when he showed me the treasure trove - a wall paper sampler catalog a local company was going to toss, some out of date floor tiles they no longer wanted. Amazing what determination and an Ex-acto knife can do.
Door knobs were fashioned out of tiny 'pearl' buttons, the glass in the windows, plastic culled off of doughnut boxes and the like. Bit by bit, the rooms took shape. We became experts with the hot-glue gun , tweezers, and swearing.
What I didn't know, at the time, is each new 'challenge' was met with a scavenger hunt by my son and his friends. Odd bags of bits and pieces would just show up at the house. Remnants of a newly laid carpet, bits of wood, dowels, buttons, earrings, beads - anything they thought might be usable.
Of course once the rooms were done, they had to be furnished. The Borrowers would have been very proud of us, I do believe. Of course, sometimes our sense of scale went slightly askew. However, I don't think it really mattered in the end. I remember the quilt, mostly. For some reason, Josh was very adamant that the parents' bedroom had to have a patchwork quilt for the bed. I nearly went blind cutting and sewing those tiny patches together. Of course, that was also the first thing the dog ate....right along with the tiny felt 'family' that lived there.
I wonder what became of that house? I don't believe we threw it out, but I can't find it stored here anywhere. Perhaps she has it over at her Dad's. It doesn't really matter - I know in reality it can't possibly touch the grand status it achieved in my memory. I can still see the gleam of adoration on her face when we gave it to her, and hear the pride in my son's voice as he pointed out what he did on it.