It all happens here

There’s something magical about a large cardboard box.  Give it to a little boy and his brother, and it instantly becomes a car.

And then give the same little boys some paper, crayons, and tape, and the hallway turns into a road, complete with traffic lights.  This very phenomenon happened in our house just a few weeks ago, as you can see here.


As I surveyed the boys’ handiwork, I noticed that other transformations had occurred while I wasn’t looking.  The bedrooms and bathroom had become a bank, a restaurant, a hospital, and a police station.

I had to smile at this.   It got me thinking, too.  It’s not really such a stretch to imagine our house as a bank.  After all, it’s a place where money is given and taken (“Honey, I’m short of cash; do you have any?”).  It’s a place where little boys eagerly invest stray coins that they find on the floor, depositing them into piggy banks with a satisfying clink.



A restaurant?  Well, our house is that, too.  It’s not five-star or Zagat rated, but it does offer everything from Mexican to Italian to Indian to good old mac and cheese.   It’s easy to get a table there, and the waitress is [usually] friendly.  (Alas, the diners don’t leave tips.  The nice waitress serves them anyway.)


When required, our house is also a hospital.  Stomach flu is treated with Jello and cartoons,  earache sufferers are hugged and kept comfortable, and small flesh wounds are bandaged promptly.   Somehow, the application of a Band-aid makes everything stop hurting.  (And let’s not forget the nurse’s special kiss-it-better remedy.)


Police station?  Well, that works, too.  In this house, those who scribble graffiti on the walls are apprehended and their crayons confiscated.   When two small-boy neighbors can’t settle their own disputes, Officers Mom and Dad are called to the scene.   Here, too, lost items of great personal value are reported (and, invariably, found — usually underneath the sofa).  Occasionally, too, speeding citations are issued (“No more chasing each other around the house!  You’re going to trip over those trains and hurt yourself!”).

See what I mean?  It all happens right here in Moyerville (Population: 4).

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