The First Wee HouseFun with Dad
That fateful morning I grabbed my coat, threw my boots on, and headed out the door. I knew I would find my Dad saddled on his favourite bench, leaning over his coffee at his work table, contemplating his plans for the day.
My entire life my Dad was always easy to be with. I could just be. He understood the important stuff. It only took a look or just a few words. Dad always understood.
As luck would have it, he wasn’t completely engrossed in his latest building project. Our conversation flowed easily from subject to subject and finally rested on the unusual topic of what kind of house I would eventually like to live in. Dad had been a builder, later in life he specialized in cabinet making.
After careful consideration, my answer was an A-frame, a chalet-type affair. I had always admired the look of this kind of house. Of course it would have to be snuggled into hardwood bush with a magnificent view of a small lake. Yep! Would sure be awesome to build some day.
In his usual direct manner, Dad asserted his opinion that, although nice to look at, that particular model had very little storage space and he seriously doubted it would be a suitable choice for me. I, in my usual direct manner, disagreed.
After a short debate, Dad decided there was only one way to convince me of my error in judgement. We would build a miniature version of my dream house and he would prove to me he was right. The deal was struck and we began work on our first miniature house that very day.
Countless hours were spent with Dad in his little shop, exactly what I needed. We laughed together, dreamed together, sorted problems as they arose, and, quite simply, just enjoyed each others company. I learned new skills and honed the old ones. The greatest lesson of all? I learned to view the world in a completely different way. To look at things, not for what they are, but what they can be.
In the end, Dad was right. There was no room for closets with that dang roof line. I ended up building a myriad of miniature furniture, in which the family that would inhabit the wee house, would eventually store their things. He had made his point but we were both winners. He had proved his thinking correct and I had precious memories, that would last a lifetime, of spending time with my Dad.