Now you can have that conversation with Dad, Tracy.

When I was somewhere around 13, somewhere around when spending every other weekend at Dad's had almost become routine- because we were still on Donaldson and Dad was in Hamilton- I was reminded on a Friday evening that it was a Dad weekend and I had moments to pack.  I was mad and I was sure that the schedule was wrong- weren't we just there last weekend?  I didn't want to go, but it had less to do with Dad than the upheaval.  I decided to take my dollhouse furniture along and while Dad was certainly waiting downstairs- I didn't know or care- I threw miniatures from the dollhouse into a box.

I threw each item into the box: things I loved, things I liked to look at set up in their little rooms, exact, perfect. Some things I had even made: a length of yarn coiled in dried glue was a braided rug; a straightened paper clip woven through two long strips of fabric made curtains.  I threw them all one by one from the rooms where they belonged into a box to take with me to Dad's.  It was ridiculous to take all these miniatures on a weekend trip- and I knew it- but I did not care.  I didn't toss them into the box, but hurled them.  And then, of course, something broke.

It was the tall gumball machine.  Suddenly there were tons of tiny, multi-colored balls and bits of broken glass scattered all over the box and its contents.  An instant, freezing combination of Why did you do that? and What now?  Standing still, staring at the box, wishing hard for one moment earlier, wishing to go back a lot further than that...

...a moment of only breath...

...then continuing to fill the box.  Still throwing things in, but lightly, filling in the empty spaces.  I put the lid on and went to Dad's.

Later, after Little Caesar's or driving Tracy to ballet or whatever we did, I unpacked my box of dollhouse furniture on Dad's coffee table.  I set up the rooms with no house, just furniture arranged on an imaginary floor plan.  I shook off the tiny gumballs into the box until everything was out and I carefully threw out the glass.

Then I looked at this pile of tiny beads in the bottom of the box: this confetti, these sprinkles, and got an idea.  I had clay, I don't remember why, and I found some little shallow clear plastic lids from something and turned them upside down.  I made tiny donuts and topped them with multi-colored sprinkles.  Then I made skinny roped pretzels and dotted them with the white ones to look like salt, and I showed off my tiny trays of food and felt proud.

Now it's at least 20 years later and I finally understand why I loved my dollhouse so much at an age when I should have outgrown it.  I think about the work my dad put into that dollhouse: he fixed the porch and put in real tile, linoleum, and carpet; he cut doors between the rooms so the people who lived there didn't have to risk their lives by climbing out around the edge of the wall.  I think about how I never did know where that gumball machine belonged.  Mostly, though, I think that I am an optimist.