Kristen Friesen: Dollhouse just one reminder of special parents

The yellow Victorian dollhouse was a present for my 10th birthday. My parents spent months building it and then hid it behind the corduroy chair in the living room. It was too big and poked out a bit, but I didn't notice. And they knew I wouldn't; I've always been a little spacey that way.

While having an absent-minded child isn't usually celebrated, it worked to my parents' advantage once or twice: like when they stole away to work on their secret project and I was none the wiser

… never wondering why we were banned from the garage.

… nor curious about that jumbo box of sticks on the kitchen counter, absent the Popsicles which gave them purpose (until they found themselves stained and laid straight as custom flooring).

… nor questioning my Dad's request for broken clay bricks (which, smashed, became the brick fireplace and believable chimney).

… nor aware that Mom spent hours cutting tiny squares from an old lace tablecloth which she then threaded onto miniature dowels (18 lace window panels for white-trimmed windows).

… nor troubled that my grown dad, a former art teacher, spent a Saturday at the kitchen table making bake-art sun-catchers (the best of which became a miniature stained-glass window on the second story).

They were good, those two. Quite a team! And they still are. But, then again, it stands to reason that people might excel at anything they've practiced for the past 43 years. Particularly if they've worked hard. And they have.

My oldest sister arrived just shy of their first anniversary, the one they hoped to spend abroad or somewhere beachy. But people who make houses from smashed brick and Popsicle sticks don't always get to do those things. Even so, they never complained. I just figured they didn't like to travel. After all, home was fun.

There were good things: like a swing set for touching the sky and a sandbox for barefoot on the beach. We "belonged" to a pool and, while it fell short of country club status because there were neither lawn chairs nor working toilets, we thought it rivaled the ocean. And it did, especially when Dad was there making waves.

And there were good times: like picnics, spontaneous trips to Goodrich Dairy, T-ball games and birthday parties. Dad made pancakes into Mickey Mouse and we ate like kings. And Mom sewed clothes and doll clothes that were the envy of our brand name friends.

There were bad times too, but they were always just out of sight --  behind eyes that did their best to smile even though. And, true to form, I never noticed.

We lived the kind of childhood that, as an adult, makes me scratch my head, wondering how my parents pulled it off -- the kind of happy-go-lucky existence that takes for granted answers to obvious questions, such as: "Did they ever stuff a bill back into its envelope for a not-so-rainy day?" Because, if so, they never let me know it.

"Did they fall hard into bed every night, exhausted from chasing kids, climbing corporate ladders and juggling grown-up responsibilities?" Because, honestly, they didn't miss a beat.

"Did they feel completely helpless when they couldn't stop a fever, calm a fear or get through to a child half their size, already too big for her britches?" Because I do.

I still have my doll house. It sits on the "summer porch" where my own children play. Most of the furniture, which I used to dust and rearrange weekly, has seen better days or been broken beyond repair, and a few of the floor boards are warped and buckling. But old houses are like that. Its bones are good, the fireplace and chimney are holding fast, and now it's a lovely shade of blue.

But the family which once lived there -- the people I named and grew up clutching in my fists, whose words I chose and lives I orchestrated - are long gone. And it's them I miss the most … because I know what it is to live in a house that love built.

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad! And, by the way, thanks.



Kristen Friesen is a wife and mother of three girls and lives in Grand Island. She grew up in a house on Cottonwood Drive in Lincoln, where she learned much of what she passes on in this column. Contact her at hervoice@theindependent.com.