A Little House by the Sea, for You and Me - Carmel Doll Shop

A Little House by the Sea,
for You and Me
by This Old House
Once upon a time, not so many years ago, two young, hard-working antique dealers
prepared to open their first shop. They weren’t really looking for a location when they spotted the old
house set back from the busy commercial street, only two blocks from the Monterey Bay and within
shouting distance of John Steinbeck’s, Cannery Row. The “For Rent” sign in the display window beckoned
and just perhaps, the shop actually found them. One of the two young men, Michael, was ready to sign the
lease on the spot, literally within seconds of seeing the rundown property. The other partner, David, was a
bit more hesitant, as was usually the case, for he wanted to absorb the vastness of the potential
undertaking. After all, David shared, with hands cupped to peer through the shop’s dirty window – the
house needed so much renovation-paint, wallpaper, floor coverings, yard work, and there would be lots of
inventory to buy – they didn’t have enough merchandise to fill one room, let alone the entire four-room
shop and could they really succeed in business while they both worked full time jobs at night? Perhaps you
have sensed that David tended to take on every aspect of the venture all at once, while Michael’s style was
to consider one development at a time.
As was Michael’s wish, the lease was signed immediately and to David’s relief, the sky did not fall. In
fact, it turned a nice shade of blue, complete with white, puffy clouds. Besides, David was always happiest
when he had a new project to tackle, although there had never before been a project as large as that one! So
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My expertly designed, but leaky hip roof.
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where to begin? With the buying! After all, it is
widely known antique dealers only sell stuff so
they can buy more and most would agree that
the fun of buying is what keeps them in the
business. So in between coats of paint, Michael
and David made time to hit some favorite
antiquing spots and one of those was just a short
drive around the bay…
Moss Landing is just a wide spot on coastal
California’s scenic Highway One. There is a
harbor chock-full of fishing boats and pleasure
craft, a mammoth plant for generating electricity
– complete with two huge, towering, smoke
stacks whose wispy curls of steam can be seen for
miles, a post office, plus a handful of restaurants
and lots and lots of antique shops.
Nearly twenty years ago, Moss landing was a
very funky, but always interesting village where
on both sides of its one main road, antique shops
filled a wide assortment of antique structures
including a wonderful mid-nineteenth century,
mansard – roofed mini-mansion known as the
Captain’s House. One of Moss Landing’s more
notable “buildings” was referred to as the
“Victorian Trailer”, a single-wide mobile home
that had been gussied up with ornate railings and
fancy wooden gingerbread scavenged from longdemolished
Victorians. Even a perpetually
parked old yellow school bus housed a shop! But,
there was not a funky structure, an historic
building, an amusing monstrosity or a vehicleturned-boutique,
that garnered more attention
than I. A visit to Moss Landing was not complete
without nearly everyone venturing near me, a
derelict, old children’s playhouse. All would take
their turns to stand upon my tiny porch, or to
peer through my miniature,
paned windows. One exception
was one of my front windows,
blocked because it bore a
cardboard sign that seemed to
scream its hand-lettered message
– NOT FOR SALE – DON’T
EVEN ASK!
Some would ignore the
warning and slide business cards
or notes under my front door, to
join the countless others, faded
and dirty, that littered my
painted plank floor—all with
similar messages, some asking
and some demanding to buy me
– a humble playhouse. I noticed
Here I am at home in front of
the shop-a lovely garden setting.

that Michael and David never wrote notes and
never did ask…not even Michael who sometimes
liked to break “the rules”. They always just
politely stood and marveled at the fine quality of
my construction, the perfect scale of my small
front door, they would touch my graceful porch
posts, admire the bands of fish-scale shingles
upon my expertly designed, but leaky hip
roof…and desire me…but rarely were they alone.
There were always countless other visitors in
Moss Landing – visitors milling around me,
loudly speculating where I had come from
originally, who built me, how much I might
command if I were ever for sale, and sadly, how
much longer I might be allowed to deteriorate.
Rumors were gleefully shared, including an
account that “someone” even presented a blank
check to my owner, with the rather desperate
option for him to fill in any amount that it might
take for him to part with me. That rumor could
have been truth, but ownership of this playhouse
simply wasn’t about money. My owner already
held title to nearly all of the real estate in the
entire village of Moss Landing – my ownership
was deeper than money, it just had to be. So I
sat…and waited…like I had been doing for many,
many years.
Meanwhile, Michael and David eventually
completed the renovation of their shop, opened
for business and managed to make a success of
it…and they continued to visit Moss Landing.
In the antiques business, after a period of time,
one realizes that perhaps some of those treasures
that one purchased maybe weren’t such treasures
after all. You’ve given them a chance to move and
they just won’t budge. Of course, there is
absolute truth in that old saying “one man’s junk
is another man’s treasure”, so one July, Michael
and David decided to do a little cleaning out of
the inventory. What better place to clean house
than the annual Moss Landing Flea Market and
Pancake Breakfast?
The morning of the flea market dawned foggy
and gray. With the scents of damp, freshly cut
grass and pungent seaweed heavy in the salt air,
the dealers arrived to take their places along
Moss Landing’s main thoroughfare. Business was
brisk and Michael and David sold like wild
fire…something to do with their display
technique, (another story) and after a few hours,
things quieted down enough for Michael to go in
search of the traditional, flea market breakfast of
deep-fried artichoke hearts. Off he went, but he
returned all too quickly and totally emptyhanded,
yet his eyes were wide as he exclaimed
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A view through my open front door…Princess Rose, a Bru Bebe
Teteur is a frequent guest for tea parties.
A family doll — Carmen reclines on a chaise with a book and
a friend.

Rose through the open window…the curtains are caught in a
warm, gentle breeze.
An all-original Bebe Bru is just about to take a rest in a miniature
Victorian wicker armchair.
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to David, “The house is for sale, the house is for
sale!” Michael repeated the statement twice, as if
to convince both himself and David that was he
was saying was indeed, true.
A confused David replied “What house?”
Michael replied, “The playhouse, I’m going to
find the owner” and with that hurriedly turned
his back on a slack-jawed, already worried
David. Not worried because he did not want to
own a playhouse, but worried how they might
move me, if indeed they were able to complete a
purchase, as that logistical problem was sure to
fall on his shoulders!
Meanwhile, Michael tracked down my owner,
Roy, (not an easy chore in a crowd that usually
swelled into the thousands) and very politely
asked if he and David might be allowed to
purchase me – adopt me, so to speak and yes, a
deal was immediately struck. Roy, an unusual
character to be sure, later admitted that he only
agreed to sell me because Michael had inquired
so nicely – a technique he had not encountered in
past offers.
Michael finally returned to tell David the
“good news” that he had spent all of the money
the two had earned that day, plus three more
payments. David expressed “mixed emotions”.
Well, plans to move me were crafted and the
chore involved quite a bit of head scratching, but
was eventually resolved with the use of a flat bed
tow truck – the kind with a hydraulic winch and
the assistance of a very patient, kind driver,
named Jamie.
I still recall the force used to break the rusted
padlock that had kept my front door shut tight
for decades. The key had been lost for years and
all that time, no one had ventured inside my four
walls until my new owners ducked through my
door. They stepped in and genuinely marveled,
once again, at my details, just like a page out of
the fairytale Jack in the Beanstalk, but with kindly
giants.
As I was lifted off of the ground, Michael and
David must have heard my sigh of relief and they
assured me, that I was about to get the care I
deserved, as I had suffered over thirty years of
neglect in Moss Landing alone.
I endured the fifteen-mile journey on the back
of the truck like a champion, shedding dry-rotted
cedar shingles the entire trip and arrived in front
of my new home at 5:00 pm, on October 17, 1989.
At 5:02, the Loma Prieta earthquake, centered in
the nearby Santa Cruz Mountains, struck the
central coast of California. In front of the shop,

Michael, David and Jamie stood on the lush
green lawn that was to be my new home as the
ground under their feet swelled like waves upon
the sea and the large plate glass windows of the
surrounding stores billowed like bed sheets on a
clothesline. The quake seemed to last forever, but
they stood firm and watched me, still high off of
the ground – still tied down and perched at the
end of the tow truck, bouncing in time with the
swinging power lines. When the earthquake
finally ended, the trio scrambled to lower me
onto the lawn, but in their understandable haste,
entirely missed the intended concrete block
supports, thereby leaving me a bit askew.
Without my front porch in place, I felt a bit
disheveled, certainly did not look my best and
for days afterwards, passersby would stop in the
shop and ask if “the little playhouse sprawled on
the front lawn” was “earthquake damage”. The
standard reply Michael concocted was, “No,
that’s the way it looked when it fell out of the
sky”.
David wasted no time in stripping off my old
roof, which for the last several years had allowed
rain to seep onto my floorboards. Laboriously
cutting hundreds of cedar shingles in fish scale
patterns, he succeeded in exactly matching my
original roof design. With a fresh roof in place,
my remaining paintwork was a breeze to
complete. Outside, I was dressed in a beautiful
shade of butter yellow with white and blue trim
and I was painted a fresh, pale pink and cream
inside.
Eventually, the lawn I initially rested on was
replaced with brick paths and a flower garden, a
much more appropriate setting, which I
frequently overheard referred to as “the most
beautiful garden in Monterey”. Honestly, after
my arrival at my new home, not a single day
passed without someone remarking on me.
Passing cars would slow, parents would point,
children would point and smile – sometimes they
would park to walk into the garden to give me a
closer look or pose for photographs. Some days,
people would wander into the shop just to
inquire about me, or my history, only to be told
there was no history—“if only that house could
talk” was the usual response. On several
occasions, people walked in the shop and assured
Michael or David that I, the playhouse in the
garden out front, had been theirs as a child. Upon
answering Michael and David’s questions, the
“first hand information” never panned out – they
knew I had just never resided in Minnesota or
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Father Tuck created wonderful lithographed paper
items in the nineteenth-century. This unhappy
gentleman, left with baby duty, is an especially large
example.
Michael and David, inspired by their friend John
Darcy Noble, have created their own Dresden tree…a
feather tree adorned with nineteenth-century paper
ornaments.

This charming walnut dresser stands less than four feet tall.
Baron de la Bear relaxes with a favorite book.
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Florida or upstate New York, or wherever it was
the person claimed to have played in me during
their childhood years. The wild claims seemed to
convince an exasperated Michael and David, that
all playhouses must look alike to small children!
Other visitors expressed outrage that I had
been sold without their knowledge, including a
gentleman visiting from the East, who one day
roared up to the front of the shop in a fancy
sports car. It was right after my arrival on the
lawn, David was sitting behind the desk inside
the shop, with a freshly read copy of The Maine
Antiques Digest on the seat next to him when the
man burst in and demanded to know somewhat
testily, “How is it that you have that playhouse?”
David replied, “It was for sale and we bought
it.” Not able to help himself he added, “We just
asked nicely by the way, that was all it took.”
The man countered, “I would like to buy it,
I’ve been after it for years.”
David replied, “It isn’t for sale.”
The tight-faced man replied with a cash offer
and tossed his business card on the desk. David
picked up the card and instantly recognized the
name on the card only because he had read it just
minutes earlier within the pages of the Maine
Antiques Digest. The sensational story in the trade
paper reported that a piece of American folk art
had recently sold at auction for over three
quarters of a million dollars. The name of the
dealer that purchased the folk art was the very
name on the business card, which David was
holding in his hand – an unbelievable
coincidence.
David said, in an incredulous tone, “You
bought the folk art?!” and picked up the paper
lying next to him, “But, our play house isn’t for
sale”.
The gentleman, stunned, headed for the door,
uttering his final words, “Hang onto my card”.
But there, the “negotiations” had ended.
For years I continued to delight visitors from
my sunny spot in the garden and they still
wandered into the shop, claiming me as their
own – including a little old lady that one day
emphatically stated, “You have my playhouse out
front” as she peered into the shop, squinting over
the open Dutch door.
Having long grown tired of the playhouse
game, David didn’t even bother to look up from
the table he was busily waxing, when he
robotically replied “Mm-hmh.”
But, it was the next sentence the lady uttered
which had David heading for the door and
reaching for the doorknob to let the old dear in.

Me with a friend upon my porch…happy memories from 1927.
“I have a picture of myself with that house that was taken in 1927.”
“Please, have a seat, sweetheart.” was David’s reply. “That, I would like to see.”
The lady went on to relate to David that she had played in me from the time she was four years old,
as she and her parents regularly vacationed in Pacific Grove, from their home in San Francisco. Good to
her promise, a few days later the little old lady returned to the shop with a copy of a black and white
photo, clearly showing herself at age four sitting in a child-sized chair, happily rocking upon my front
porch. She made the photo a gift to Michael and David – a touching act, but I was all the more touched
that she had recognized me after all of that time had passed, since the day, as a smiling little girl, she sat
upon my tiny porch.
It seems the little lady really knew what I had known all along, but of course, could not share. I was
built for the enjoyment of the children that visited the Forest Hill Hotel, located in Pacific Grove, an
adjacent town.
I would endure one more move when Michael and David relocated their antiques business to San
Francisco, closing the door on the Monterey shop they had operated for just over ten years. A phone call
was placed to the towing company that had moved me years previous and to the pleasant surprise of all
of us, a smiling Jamie responded to the call. After all, he had experience in house moving!
Once more I was lifted from the ground, destination – the garden of Michael and David’s newly
purchased house.
It has been ten years now since that last move and I have seen a lot of changes in those years. My life
is a bit quieter these days without the attention of the clamoring public…though, no less lovely.
Surrounded by graceful pepper trees whose profuse pink peppercorns softly rake against my roof, a
pink climbing rose provides fragrant enjoyment in the springtime months. A nearby bubbling fountain
and the buzz of bees tending the roses and lavender provide a gentle lullaby and many evenings I am
lulled to sleep by the distant, yet familiar bellowing of the foghorn located in my old hometown of
Pacific Grove. Some summer Saturdays, I find myself straining to hear the cheers of children playing
baseball at a park a few blocks away. But, these days, rather than visits from children, I am more likely
to be explored by a resident Bulldog puppy, a new addition to the family who wanders in from time to
time when my door is left open. Inside, I lovingly embrace a collection of old, child-sized furniture,
books, photos and toys, all haunted by the sweet spirits of the children they once belonged to. One
special photo is the one of the four year old girl sitting in the little rocker upon my front porch, the child
who grew up to finally share our story…hard to believe that she actually knew me when I was young.
All of that time…the pine trees in the old photo are small and appear newly planted, while today they
tower at least four stories. All of that time…I provided infinite joy to small children, dogs, cats and big
children, alike. All of that time…I longed…to share my true story and I waited…to finally…come home.
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My first home — the Forest Hill Hotel in Pacific Grove, California.

Home…at last.
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