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When I was four and five my parents took us all to Wannamakers in downtown Philadelphia at this time of year. My memory impression is of a huge, cavernous place, grand with sculpture and architectural detailing, wonderous beyond that with lights, a tree the size of a house, garlands of richness and color, and, best of all, miniature otherworlds, landscapes and towns, snow, trees, people, sleds, all smaller, much smaller than me. This was, to me, the very definition of magic and possibility.
Around the same age, one of my favorite going-to-sleep daydreams was that there was a secret room off one my windows, small, but big enough for me and for a whole entire village in miniature--but real, all the people real and living their little people lives, and the whole town and all the people in it were mine, all mine. I was a benevolent ruler, of course, but they were still mine. I found this imagined village in a room far more compelling than any dollhouse could ever be.
Does this make me a scary person?
Around the same age, one of my favorite going-to-sleep daydreams was that there was a secret room off one my windows, small, but big enough for me and for a whole entire village in miniature--but real, all the people real and living their little people lives, and the whole town and all the people in it were mine, all mine. I was a benevolent ruler, of course, but they were still mine. I found this imagined village in a room far more compelling than any dollhouse could ever be.
Does this make me a scary person?
