Official Blog of Kristy Gherlone

by Kristy Gherlone

In 2020, my husband surprised me with a trip to a dollhouse store a couple of towns over from where we live. I had no idea that such a place existed, and I was perplexed as to why he wanted to take me there. When we went in and he told me to choose any dollhouse I wanted, I must admit that I was a bit annoyed. Yes, I had mentioned on occasion over the years that I’d like to build one, but I don’t suppose I really meant it. Building a dollhouse is a lot of work and the giver of such a gift would have certain expectations. He would certainly expect me to actually work on it. It was generous and kind, I know, but I didn’t know how to take on such a project. What I knew about building anything, came from watching my dad tinkering with projects in our basement when I was a child. I felt rather sick. The ladies working in the shop assured me that most of the dollhouses came as kits, had instructions and plans and while it would be a challenge for a first timer, I could call upon them if I needed any help. I looked around, trying to warm to the idea and my eyes suddenly fell on a giant behemoth of a place. It was at least 4 feet long and just as tall. I asked about it. The ladies told me that a gentleman had brought it in a short time ago. It was not from a kit, but something someone had made. It was unfinished and none of the windows were the same. She told me I would have a hard time trying to find the pre-made building materials I would need, as it was not to scale. As she stood there, trying her best to discourage me from such a project, another customer chimed in that it would be foolish for a first timer to take it on. And just like that, I owned what I was sure was the largest headache in the world. To make matters worse, on the trip home, the turret flew off the back of the truck and smashed in the middle of the road. As we ran around trying to collect all the pieces, something a lot like longing stirred inside of me and an old wound came to the surface.

I don’t talk about my mother very much. It is a difficult subject for me. It has been hard for me to make peace with our past and move beyond some of the things that happened to me as a child. She is gone now, but some of the wounds she inflicted upon me linger stubbornly. The small story I’m about to tell you is one of many that remain forever fixed in my mind.

When I was about nine years old, my mother told me out of the blue one day that I would be getting a package from my grandfather. That she even called him “my” grandfather was something of a novelty. She always referred to him as “her” father. “Her” father and “her” mother. My grandparents lived in upstate New York, and we didn’t get to see them often at all. Once a year, unless they came to see us, which was rare. My grandfather was a skilled carpenter. I knew that not from experience, but because my mother talked about it a lot, so I assumed I would be getting something homemade. When the package finally arrived and I opened it, I could not believe my eyes. It was the most exquisite dollhouse I had ever seen and completely furnished right down to the silver ware. There was even a spiral stairway leading to the upstairs. I was thrilled. I had always wanted one, but we had always been too poor to buy one. We both sat there at the table marveling at his creativity and exploring the many rooms. My mother told me that he had made most of the fine furnishings. I couldn’t believe it was mine! Inside, there was a note from my grandfather, telling me that I could decorate the walls myself with any wallpaper I wanted. I couldn’t wait to get started. Unfortunately, that first day was one of only a few days that I was even allowed to touch it. My mother worried that I would ruin it and lose the pieces. It was just too special for me to be allowed to have. She took it away to her room and there it sat like a relic for all eternity. I remember in my indignant frustration one day, after asking to play with it and being rejected once again, of threatening to call my grandfather and tell him that she had taken it from me. I received a slap for the impertinence and told that I would never be allowed to call her parents about anything. If I needed to thank them for something, she was on the other line waiting to interject whenever she felt necessary.

In time, my wonderful dad stepped in and built me a barbie dream house. He always tried very hard to fix my wounds and I’ll always love him for it. I can say with confidence that I have forgiven my mother for the dollhouse. Whatever deficiency she suffered as a child wounded her also. Perhaps “her” father never had the time to build her a dollhouse. I have compassion for her. Her need to possess it surpassed any duty she felt towards me. Now as an adult, I have a dollhouse. I finally have my own dollhouse. My husband knew that I needed it even if I didn’t. He is such a blessing every single day.

I don’t know how I knew how to do the work it needed; I just know that when I began, I just knew. It was a natural as breathing. I guess I am a carpenter-like my grandfather, though nowhere near as skilled. I had to hand make all the windows. I built the chimney and did all the stonework on the turret and foundation myself. I built the floors and am now working on the inside. I am finally allowed to talk to my grandfather in private, as weird as that sounds. He is dead, of course, but with me very often as I work, scolding when I cut corners and praising when I figure something difficult out. It has been good for me, though challenging at times. I have been working on it for years now, but I have every confidence that I will finish. I’m doing my best to make it as fancy as possibly. The little girl that still lives inside of me deserves it and is more than worthy. Any child that wishes to play with it, will be allowed. There is nothing in it that is more valuable than a child’s spirit.