Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Okay, you can come in the clubhouse now.
Forget it! You wouldn't let me in yesterday. Keep your crummy old clubhouse. Who wants to play in that dump anyway?
It's not a dump. It's My Book House and it has a great history. A long time ago, this lady named Olive Beaupre Miller couldn't find anything good to read to her three-year-old daughter. So she wrote some stories and poems. Then she decided she'd start a series of storybooks. She called them My Book House. The first set came out in 1920, in a cardboard house. In 1927, some of the sets were sold in wooden houses.
Fast forward to last week. The Writer took--
you mean dragged.
--her husband to some antique shops. She knew the Book House was there, of course. She just wanted to show it to him, just so he could see this marvel of publishing history. She had no intention of getting it. But, generous man that he is, he bought it for her as a graduation present.
The Writer has a newer set of Book House books, from the 50s. But she loves this set because of the little house. And we get to play in it!
How come The Writer has all this old stuff around? Tatty old postcards and cluttery junk like that old kitchen scale she just got. Fortunately it's too small to weigh me.
You have to be weighed on the scales at the feed store. The Writer hates this century. So she fills her house with old stuff to make her feel like she's living in 1920s.
But that's just an illusion! She's really living in this century.
Shhh. Don't tell her.