Imagination

Being a child in rural Ohio forces you to get creative. My brothers and I built cities out of dirt and straw, fought wars in the "trenches" of our newly installed sewer line and constructed forts out of couch cushions and sheets. We didn't have much money, so our playtime had to be resourceful.

After a lot of prayer and heartache my mother got a new washer...and we got a new toy.

The giant cardboard box almost glowed with magnificence. I stood in the basement staring, afraid to touch it for fear of ruining the perfect potential. Mom's skillful hand held the knife as she made the first cut. The door was formed. Next came the window. Crayons were used to draw the curtains, a wall phone and even a window box filled with red flowers.

That house was the perfect house. I felt safe and sheltered. If I didn't bump the walls, no one could tell that I was in there and my world could be anything I wanted it to be. I'd dream of a curved stairway and a bedroom filled with cushions. A butler to take my coat and call me "Madame". I'd go in and out the front door, pretending to get home from school or work or shopping. It was so nice to come home.

Being satisfied with a real home is much, much harder. And making a real home takes even more imagination.