Really real dreams

My kid brother and I had the most elaborate play house.

We swept with our little broom 'til the floors were like polished marble.

We had running faucets.  We had a hinged door.

Why, we even had a couch in there.

We spent hours and days and weeks of our childhood bettering our little house.  

Living out stories of life and practicing homekeeping.  We treasured our space.

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Funny thing, when I saw our play house as an adult, I saw for walls the overgrown bushes from the front of our parents' house.  The marble floor was just dirt, rubbed solid and smooth from out little feet padding across it and sweeping it with our corn husks tied to a stick.  Our running faucets were the top half of milk jugs, inverted and strapped to the bush stems with baling twine from the barn. Our faucets flowed when we unscrewed the milk jug cap.  The couch was the best:  that long branch was just our height and had a delightful spring to it when we sat down.  A hinged door?  It was a cantankerous and obstinate branch that needed a purpose other than smacking the back of our legs every time we ducked under the bushes into our world.

That was our house.

It was really real at one time.

And I have the best memories there.

photo credit: mikelynnreneephotography.com

My adult brother came along side and helped my family build a really real house that we will soon be moving into.  Our dirt marble floors and hinged door branches and half milk jug plumbing practice had a lot to do with believing we could.

And so we did.

Give children the time to create; permission to see the impossible; freedom to believe a dream.
And watch it become reality.

Always be creative,

Marie Winfield