I played with that house for years--long after society says I was too old to play with Barbies.
I didn't care. I had that house, and it was perfect.
When I was about 8 or 9, I got a Barbie Town House. Now I had two houses for my Barbies, and they could visit each other. But the Town House wasn't as well-constructed as the one Mom made, and it collapsed over time. The furniture was still good, so I moved some of it into the homemade house.
Eventually, when I was in college, Mom moved that homemade house to the attic. I was devastated. It had become a part of my bedroom, like the lights and ceiling fan. It didn't belong in the attic!
When we moved from the farm to Angleton, I insisted it come with us. Mom was not pleased about this decision, but I would not be swayed. So, it sat--fully furnished with Barbies--in my Angleton bedroom. My cats enjoyed climbing in it, and I would shoo them off. By this time, the house was almost 20 years old. I wasn't sure if the weight of my 10-pound cats would be too much.
But it survived.
Then we moved to Indiana. Again, I insisted the house come with us. This time, when one of the cats jumped in it, the house was no longer able to hold. The second floor collapsed. My heart broke. I had had this house since elementary school. What was I going to do? Where were my Barbies going to live?
It took me a year to gather up the emotional strength to throw out my poor, broken Barbie house. Before I did, I took measurements and decided I would build another one just like it. But there was a problem with that idea.
I'm not a woodworker by any means. And we no longer owned the tools it would take to put together a wooden Barbie house.
I would have to come up with a plan for a house I could build.
After several suggestions from Mom, some friends and not-terribly-helpful Google searches, I stumbled upon an idea.
And then the pandemic happened.
to be continued...
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