Here’s something about the new house: it might have a sewing room. If by “sewing room” you mean “basement chamber with a water problem, concrete floor, and cinder block walls.” But a room is a room, you know. And I’ve long felt that the only way I’ll ever, ever begin to use my sewing machine on a regular basis is if it stays open on a dedicated table. And here’s my opportunity. There’s even room in here to make a space for messy work, or maybe even bulky projects like, oh, finishing the inside of my childhood dollhouse!
Which brings up what this basement room of mine reminds me of: my grandfather. Chasie built my dollhouse (along with several other dollhouses, model ships, etc.) in his own basement workshop in Bronxville, NY. He used to take his grandkids down there to build dollhouse furniture or other little things. His specialty was cutting a circle of thin wood in half, then gluing the halves at 90 degrees to made a demi-lune table. He also made a very clever little display stand for the miniature costumed mice I collected like crazy in about 1983.
The last time I was ever down in Chasie’s workshop, it was maybe 15 years after his death, and right before my grandmother moved into nursing care. Most of his things had been cleared away, but amazingly enough, on the metal shelf that still had a few nails and screws on it was a jam jar filled with his cigarette butts. Man, I wish I’d taken that with me, as nutty as it would have seemed. It would have pride of place in my little den.