Blanket Buildings

I can't remember how many of these things we constructed over the years, but it took a lot of hand knit afghans, Smurfette sleeping bags, imagination, and open minded parents letting us stay up until all hours of the night tying blankets to the ceilings.





Aren't these pictures hilarious?

My favorite part is the inscriptions written by (then) 8-year-old Allison on the back of the photos.



And...



Those were the days.

But this post is about more than nostalgia. I want to show you these to clear something up.

Instead of opening up a conversation about how I began, how I became interested in architecture and buildings, a lot of people ask me if my parents were involved in renovating or designing places when I was growing up. What I think they're really trying to do, is find a tactful way to find out if I inherited my properties.

And I guess I understand why you're curious.

The short answer is, no.

Do you see that doll laying on the bed? The one with the red hair?

Her name was Annie. My mother waited in line for four hours so that I could be the first kid on my block to have a Cabbage Patch Kid. But the only action that Annie ever saw was with Bradley, the boy in our caul-de-sac who my brother and I nicknamed Fruit Roll Up. I remember when I was invited to his 7th birthday party, and Bradley asked for a Polly Pocket. My mom bought him a Star Wars figurine and a ball.

I was jealous.

Annie followed me around for years. As did the kitchen set that my mother bought me. And the Barbies.

Ohhh, the Barbies.

I would negotiate deals between my sisters so that I could have all of the Barbie buildings (the playhouse, the doctor's office, the apartment) in exchange for the actual Barbies and their collective wardrobes. Then, I'd take the her pink, plastic houses and combine them with my brother's large wooden blocks to build the Taj Mahal of Barbie play land.

In my 6-year-old mind, anyway.

When I was 8, my brother and I built a fort in our backyard made of tires, sticks, garbage can lids, and plywood. When I was 10, we built a quarter pipe in our driveway to skateboard on. When I was 11, I started obsessively drawing floor plans. I'd steal my mother's fliers from Realtors, cut them up, redraw how I thought they should look, then show the creations to my parents. (Who never thought they were very good, by the way.) When I was 13, I was constantly building models of houses out of notebook paper and Scotch tape. When I was 15, I went to Europe and saw what really decent classical architecture looks like. I became aware of things that I hadn't been exposed to before.

I was amazed.

I was humbled.

I was in awe of what architects are capable of.

I decided that I should become a lawyer instead.

So that's the story of how I began. Not really, but that's the foreword of the very start of the beginning of the prequel.

No, my parents didn't set me up with a gargantuan inheritance and a plethora of Trump style inventory. No, they are not architects or real estate gurus. No, I didn't become a lawyer.

But that's fine with me.

Give me a stack of old blankets and a sketch pad with a box full of wooden building blocks. At least it's not as boring as a trust fund.