The tiny house with the narrow stairwell is something to behold. I often think of Old Mother Hubbard when inside, three tiny floors and a ton of stairs. Today we worked in the kitchen, and hung a few things up on the walls. I asked my friend if he had a desk that we could use. Then we laughed 'cause we knew the desk had to be upright and narrow to fit on the second floor.
He had one, but the key somehow wasn't around. Not in the drawers. Nowhere in memory. A desk with drawers, but the top part could open without the key. We where just about to giveup on the desk and carry it back to the main house, when I had an idea. I told my friend that I had an old metal ring full of varied keys that I found at the brocante, "Maybe one of them will work? What do we have to lose?"
My friend remembered that the main house, his great grand mother's, had a ring of keys in the basement, "The keys to the house, one for every cupboard, clock, jewel box, armoire, chest, dresser, garden house, tool shed..."
Rusty.
Worn.
Forlorn.
Most of the things to be locked with those keys were long gone.
Looking at the ring or keys made me realized that those ring of keys that I have seen at the brocantes use to belong to a home, and not just a collection of keys for the sake of a collection.
I wished each of those keys could tell me their purpose.
Some of the keys had paper tags, this one said, "Passe-Partout" which means:
"Goes everywhere."
But it didn't go in the desk.
"The key has to be little," I told my friend like a key pro, but really I am just a brocante junkie and have learned a thing or two along the way.
The magic moment.
Unlocked.
Ready to be carried upstairs.
As my friend carried the key ring back to the basement, I asked if we could keep one of the old handwritten tags for good memory sake.
I love this project!