Growing up as a builder’s daughter, I benefited from my father’s chosen profession. Our family often rode the highs and lows of residential construction by moving from one spec house to the next. For a young girl who changed favorite colors as often as socks, I was thrilled to get a new bedroom—complete with a new color palette—every few years, oblivious to the real financial impetus for our frequent moves.
Dad also made sure I had my own toolbox. The bright red metal container held dividers full of Dad’s hand-me-down screws and nails with a clunky measuring tape and rusty wooden hammer. As a child, I lugged that thing around Dad’s construction site ready to help him in case his crew of 20 other men couldn’t find any of their tools. Dad indulged his young apprentice, asking me to measure a window or borrowing my one and only Phillips-head screwdriver.
Tagging along with Dad at his work site was as good and pure a life as I could imagine. I’d watch in rapt attention as he’d prepare to drive a nail into two-by-four. He was the Houdini of hammering, clenching his teeth around the smallest nail while managing to hold a hammer, pencil, and level without dropping—or swallowing—anything.
One of the best gifts Dad gave me came from scraps. After cleaning up a finished project, he used a pile of discarded doors to build my very own playhouse. The side panels were comprised of hollow-board hallway doors running horizontally, knobs intact. The roof was a mismatch of asphalt shingles. And Dad managed to salvage a bathroom sink for my faux kitchen inside. He saved the design piece de resistance for the front entrance, placing a glass-paneled walnut door as the entryway. It looked like Dorothy’s house post-tornado from The Wizard of Oz, but I loved that place like no tomorrow.
Recently, while reading a story about a little girl who discovers an abandoned cottage, my daughter opined that she’d love to have a playhouse. Big brother chimed in agreement. A neglected potting shed in our backyard suddenly presented itself as a viable possibility. Before you could say Bob Villa, we were in the throes of a design re-do.
First, we established one simple rule—no money would be spent on this project. Instead, some serious elbow grease and creative energy would shape this warped, wooden shed into a fun retreat. So, we pulled out some paint cans from the garage, grabbed a few brushes, and got busy.
After attacking the exterior, we focused on the inside, adding a miniature table and chairs from the back porch. Our dog declared instant occupancy, joining two kids and one mama hunched down in the petite space.
The children raked the area around the shed, adding a few stepping stones as a playful walkway, painted in whatever color we had left. The playhouse was almost finished, save for hanging a few pictures taken from inside the “main” quarters.
Heading back to the garage, I dusted off a worn and faded metal toolbox. With the rusty wooden hammer, I returned to the newly deemed playhouse, clenching a small nail in my teeth while measuring the spot to hang our first picture. I thought of Dad. And my all-door playhouse. And my borrowed days on construction sites.
Then I told my children I hoped they’d always love this place like no tomorrow.
