a sneaky peeky

Lately when a friend calls and says "Hey, Amy, whatchadoin?" my answer has been a steady "making houses". I really should say "I'm playing" because that's what it feels like. I love making these houses so much.

My father used to set up a village scene every year under the Christmas tree. We'd go to bed as he was hammering at the plyboard platform he remade every year, with the smell of spray paint and reindeer moss in the air.

And we'd awake the next day to a magical little town, complete with a working railroad and a train that whirled around "chuga chuga chuga choo choo!" disappearing in a tunnel only to reappear on the other side. Did a burst of steam really puff out of it? Did I imagine that?

He set up roads with cars and ponds with skaters. And dotted along the imaginary neighborhoods were people going about their imaginary business, frozen in place. Or was it? The real magic of it was that the whole town came to life. The newspaper boy threw the paper into the bushes. The children laughed and played stick ball. The cows gently mooed and the horses galloped in circles.

I would sit and watch this sweet little town with its sparkly stars courtesy of the Christmas tree above. I longed to play with it. "Look with your eyes, not your hands" was the strict rule. Punctuate that rule with the fact that the railroad sometimes let out an electrical shock and, well, I don't think I ever did touch it.

This is one reason why I do love making these houses so very much. The 8 year old Amy comes alive in me and plays with a magical neighborhood. When the tiny little man tips his hat hello, she smiles and curtseys back. She tells him how lovely his gumdrop tree is looking. And when she sees the newlyweds sitting on their front steps ankledeep in fresh fallen snow, she smiles too at the sweetness of it all.



These houses and dozens more are for SilverBella.