When I turned eight, I was given a dollhouse. A two-story, post-World War II style with plastic furniture and a plastic family of four.

It was plenty of toy to stir my imagination — for a while. But just when I started tiring of moving around the furniture, I overheard my parents. My dad had lost his job. I was too young to know the impact of that news. It just gave me a whole new angle for my playing: I pretended the dollhouse father had lost his job!

To save money, my little family rented out the first floor of its house and lived only on the second floor. That required many decisions. . . and I relished every one. Which furniture was absolutely required? What could the family do without? Could some pieces do double duty? Could others be stacked?

When my mother saw I was using only the top floor of my dollhouse, she was curious. I explained the family’s reversal of fortune.

“I see,” she said, “but why is the toilet at the dining room table?”

“Because with the toilet lid down, it’s a chair, mama! It can be a toilet AND a chair!” I chirped. Noticing her somewhat shocked look, I quickly added, “No one minds sitting on the toilet-chair at dinner. The family is just happy to be together.”

Twenty years into our marriage . . . Lyle and I bought a magnificent house. I had grown up in a one bedroom Chicago apartment with my parents, my grandma, and my uncle. Oh, but I had dreamed about a magnificent house all my life. Our house had everything I ever imagined — a circle drive, a foyer large enough to hold a grand piano comfortably, a kitchen like you see in the movies — and more.

While the whole place was truly beautiful, the 1300 square foot master bedroom suite was my hands-down favorite. In addition to the usual things found in a wonderful bedroom, ours had a kitchen — microwave, sink, refrigerator, and table for two with a garden view. A sitting area — couch, TV, lots of books and magazines. A fully equipped work-out room; a state-of-the-art rain shower, steam bath, and Toto Toilet; and a private deck replete with a fountain.

And then there was my closet, my favorite within my favorite. It had a built-in dresser with one enormous jewelry drawer that held all my sparkling pieces. I could see all my jewelry as well as all my clothes and shoes and purses at one time. I was in heaven every time I had to get dressed.

Ten years later . . . Lyle and I had our own reversal of fortune. We sold that house and moved into The Little House — 375 square feet of remodeled garage — miniature kitchen appliances but no oven, a shower but no tub, and one modest closet for us to share. (One of us had to wait at the foot of the bed while the other selected the day’s clothes.)

I missed the luxuries of the big house very much, but we were happy in both places.

Sometimes I wonder if overhearing my parents’ troubles and then downsizing my dollhouse prepared me for the financial ups and downs I faced as an adult. No one knows from one day to the next what her fortune will be. Life offers no guarantee of continuity. Rags to riches, riches to rags. It happens.

So maybe the best attitude is simply this: Enjoy the home you’re in. And if you find yourself at your table — grand or modest — enjoying a meal with the people you love? Embrace it to the fullest — regardless of what you’re sitting on.

My sense of direction is missing. I seem to have none at all. No joke. None. Or maybe I’m just weird in the way I perceive things. 

Take my driving to a barn party yesterday. The hostess had sent clear directions. I checked on a map. I studied it until I understood the directions completely. Then, to be doubly sure, I programmed the address into my GPS. How could I go wrong?

Well, I did. It took me 45 minutes to drive to the party and 12 minutes to drive home. Why? Because I was unable to identify what was a road. The “road” looked like a driveway to me. Or a trail. Or maybe a footpath. But surely not a road. Not a road to turn down. No. Not at all. Not a road. No.

That’s what did me in. I didn’t turn on “the second road after the left turn” because I would never, ever in a million year think of that gravel strip as a road.

But I didn’t give up. I went back and forth over the same two-lane ACTUAL road several times until I finally figured out the “road” I was supposed to turn down. 

I’m glad I didn’t give up. The party was fun and very happy, celebrating two wonderful middle-aged people about to be married. Living proof that love is lovelier the second time around. 

Not always true of finding a destination, however.