I haphazardly closed up the little house this year. I hurriedly swept the floors, took out the trash, checked the windows, pulled the Dutch door shut and whispered, “Thanks for the memories.”

Not long after, a fierce night wind pushed the door open. Blowing snow drifted in and nestled in the corners.

Tiny hand-shaped footprints crisscrossed the front porch. With the door ajar, raccoons let themselves in and ransacked the place. They tossed plates and cups, knocked the fry pan on the stove to the floor and clawed at the tablecloth in search of crumbs. So uncivilized.

The little house really is just that. It measures 6 feet by 6 feet and has a ceiling that will graze the head of anyone over 5 feet 2 inches tall. The front porch, which usually holds a red geranium and child-size wicker chair, runs the width of the little house.

We built the little house 35 years ago. It was how we spent a summer vacation not long after we moved back to the Midwest. The husband drew meticulous plans, hauled in supplies and was assisted by a work crew that played with the hammer, colored all over the blueprints and littered the work site with empty juice boxes and yogurt pouches.

Despite all the help, the little house was eventually finished and soon hosting tea parties, secret clubs, bank robberies and foreign invasions.

The years flew, the children grew, the gatherings tapered from often to occasional, and the little house was visited less and less frequently. The life and laughter that once shook the walls quietly disappeared.

More than a decade passed before a second generation brought the little house back to life. Red, white and blue garlands on the Fourth of July, small bouquets of freshly picked herbs in the summer, a pumpkin on the porch at Halloween and every pot and pan filled with maple leaves and acorns in the fall.

A VRBO listing would read like this: Small, aging, rustic cottage. No ‘fridge, heat or running water. Nearest bathroom 20 feet away in the big house. Kitchen fully stocked with plastic food. Decrepit dishware for four and a pink teapot missing the lid. Large chalk wall; no chalk. All you need is imagination.

Now, after a busy summer and beautiful fall, the mercury in the thermometer plummeting and the wind howling, the little house stands bare and alone.

Just when it appears forsaken and forgotten, a small voice asks to use one of those orange electrical cords in the garage. The plan is to lug a space heater to the little house.

And could they cut some evergreens?

And could they use that lantern with the candle in the hall?

And how soon could I deliver a round of hot chocolate?

Once again, the little house bustles with laughter and warmth. At least for one more season.

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