When Dreams Come True In Miniature

MEMORIES OF CHRISTMAS 1962

“It has a light that really lights, and a doorbell that really rings ...” I'll never forget those words. It was 1961, and I memorized and chanted this sentence no less than 200 times a day. They came from a TV commercial for the “Marx-A-Mansion Dreamhouse®;” a dollhouse made by the old Louis Marx & Company. From about 1918 to 1980, Marx manufactured several tin litho dollhouses that were popular in the 50s and 60s. I had a small one when I was about four years old that eventually found its way into the storefront window of my grandfather's real estate office.

But, the Marx-A-Mansion Dreamhouse, a/k/a “Marxie,” was the cat daddy of them all. It was their largest house, evolving from their original Colonial. This wonder had seven rooms and a balcony off the master bedroom. I wanted that house! I talked about it constantly; cut out pictures from the newspaper and stuck them on the fridge, the front door and tucked in my mother's purse. Christmas was coming, and the world would crumble if I didn't get that magical mansion. Of course, I didn't get it.

Christmas morning of 1961 was the most tragic of days. I fought back tears of disappointment, as I was raised not to sulk and show signs of being ungrateful. I tried. I really tried, but my heart was broken. So I put the Dreamhouse out of my mind – sort of. To suffice, I made tons of little houses from cardboard boxes, designing homemade wallpaper and bottle cap furniture. They became very elaborate, and soon I had created an entire neighborhood of shoe box tract houses. One day I came home from school, and they were gone. I never bothered to ask; I knew my hobbies were excessive.

Shortly after Thanksgiving on the morning of my birthday the following year, I ran upstairs to visit my Aunt Thelma, who I knew was baking me a cake. As I mounted the first step, I did a double-take. There at the bottom of the stairs, behind the hall door, was a huge flat box. I nearly had “the big one” as I stood there in shock, with my mouth salivating and my knees shaking. Printed on the side, in huge letters was “Marx-A-Mansion Dreamhouse.” My eyes glazed over, and I struggled to climb the stairs, acting as nonchalant as I could. Really? Could they have not hidden this any better than this? But it was here! My house was here – in time for Christmas 1962. So I played dumb.
According to conversations I heard that Christmas, apparently, it took six men and nine babies to put the thing together on Christmas Eve with much cussing and eggnog, as I pretended to sleep, grinning the night away. I had hit pay dirt. My house had the famed “Florida Room,” with wrap-around windows. Yes, the light (lamp) really did light (as long as we had batteries), and the doorbell really did ring. A bonus for me was I also got a kidney shaped pool that went with another Marx house. I later used it for drowning tomato worms in the backyard.

My mother had come through, with the help of my aunt and uncle, and got me the dollhouse when she could afford it. My romance with the house resumed. More than that, it was the beginning of a passionate hobby I still adore. Miniatures! When I was about 47, I fell into the hobby on a visit to our old Ben Franklin store. I saw a small wood house that needed love. I dragged it home and showed my mother who immediately recognized the crazed look on my face. My hobby turned into a monster that couldn't be contained. I'm ashamed to say how much money and time I spent being a miniaturist. Nor will I confess to how many houses in different scales I actually own(ed) and/or constructed.
The biggest was a gigantic vintage Dura-Craft® Farmhouse gifted to me by a friend. It took me three years to rehab it, including wiring, decorating, building and collecting pieces to go inside. A friend from the U.K. sent me a set of silver candlesticks and hand blown glass liquor bottles. I even rigged up a TV that came on.
One night, my family and I were at a Chinese buffet in Muncie when I noticed an odd look on Mom's face. She had spotted it. Of all things to decorate a Chinese restaurant with, was a vintage Marx-A-Mansion Dreamhouse. I trembled. Mine got lost in the shuffle of life decades ago. I think my cousin, Allyson may have inherited it; we did that sort of thing growing up. I never got over my love affair with Marxie. In a rush of adrenaline, I asked the owner if he'd sell. “Absolutely Not!” he said. As I slithered back to my Moo Shu Pork, I saw my ex husband and mother snicker.

But life changes, as do necessities and needs. I no longer have the passion for my miniatures, nor the space and ability to care for them. This week, I am parting with my beloved farmhouse that now holds inches of dust, cobwebs and the remains of the inhabitants my dog has chewed up. It's going to a little girl.

I often look up Marxie online to reminisce. Now valued in the hundreds, I realize my mother struggled to pay $15 for that house for me. But, that was who she was. I didn't get it when I wanted it; but I got it on time. Little did she know the seed she was planting.

Originally Published in The Courier-Times, New Castle, Indiana, Nov 26, 2017