Doll Mansion

By Lori M. Nadeau

For the Deseret News, 2009

1963 was an eventful year. The Beatles released their first album; Martin Luther King Jr. delivered his powerful "I have a Dream" speech; the Vietnam War continued; and President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. But for an 8-year-old girl in Provo, Utah, the greatest event of 1963 would be Christmas.

It all began in the middle of October when my father started spending a great deal of time outside in his shed. It was an old, dimly lit, cold wooden shed filled with currently unused but "sure to be needed in the future" items.

As a young girl, I was convinced that every variety of spider known to man lived in the vast cobwebs covering each corner and small, four-legged creatures must certainly call the rafters home. But to dad, the shed was his little piece of heaven on earth. He loved tinkering on various projects year-round.

So at first the time he spent in the shed mid-October went virtually unnoticed. However, as December approached, he had established a nightly ritual. Immediately following dinner, Dad would put on his warmest but well-worn coat, wrap a scarf around his neck and depart for the shed.

Hours later, covered with sawdust, he would return. I just couldn't fathom what could possibly be so important that Dad would be willing to spend hour after hour in that ridiculously cold, dingy shed.

By Christmas Eve the anticipation of the wondrous treasures possibly waiting under our tree made it almost impossible to sleep. Christmas morning — at long last! As my older sister and I eagerly waited in the hallway wearing our "You can open one present on Christmas Eve" pajamas, Mom and Dad turned on the lights of the tree and took their proper place on the living room couch.

The picture-perfect scene was now complete and it was time for us to make our grand entrance. I am certain there must have been numerous gifts tenderly placed under the tree by Santa during the night, along with our newly filled stockings.

But there was only one gift that I remember and will never forget. There in the middle of the room stood a wooden dollhouse. A dollhouse beyond any little girl's dream. A dollhouse with six perfectly decorated rooms filled with intricately crafted wooden furniture. No detail had been forgotten. Barbie and Ken had just moved from a shoebox on my shelf into a palatial mansion.

During the years following that magical Christmas morning, the dollhouse was put to great use. My fortunate friends and I spent endless hours caught up in the splendor of imagination. However, as time passed and Barbie and Ken lost their allure, the dollhouse sat vacant in my bedroom.

Eighteen years later in November of 1981, without my knowledge, Dad lovingly carried the dusty dollhouse out of my old bedroom and returned it to the shed. He began renovating each room and rebuilding the now war-torn furniture. This was to be his gift for my 4-year-old daughter, who had recently discovered the wonder of Barbie.

Once again, the nightly ritual of bundling up and heading for the shed began.

By December 10, two rooms had been completed and Dad was on schedule to have the entire dollhouse transformed and ready for occupation by Christmas.

However, my dad unexpectedly passed away on December 11.

A week later, I learned of his plan to present the dollhouse to my daughter. I went outside and with tears flowing placed the key in the rusty lock protecting Dad's treasures. There inside, stood the dollhouse — my dollhouse.

Newly finished furniture sat on Dad's old worktable, as well as items still needing to be completed. I brought the dollhouse to my home and completed the remaining rooms the best I could.

On Christmas morning, my son and daughter stood anxiously waiting in the hallway wearing their "You can open one gift on Christmas Eve" pajamas. I turned the lights of the tree on and took my proper place on the living room couch.

It was now time for my children to make their grand entrance. As my daughter entered the room, her eyes lit up and she screamed with pure delight as she became the new owner of the mansion.

I only wish my father could have shared in that moment.

I would have given anything to have been able to thank him for his long, patient, loving hours in that old shed.

He, however, was elsewhere starting the ritual over again. The master craftsman had gone ahead to start preparing yet another mansion.