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I'm 44 years old, and once or twice a year I get the urge (need?) to drag my huge box of Lincoln Logs down to the living room and build something. There is something about sifting through the collection of wooden pieces; grabbing a handful of the little one-notch and two-notch logs, and maybe finding in the bottom a matched pair of four-notchers -- perfect for the roofline of a huge wooden lodge.
I make a different building every time, but I find that it's not the act of building that I am needing when I go up to the attic to retrieve the assorted boxes. It's difficult to describe, but it has something to do with just reopening those boxes, seeing the pieces again that I so carefully organized when I put them away last time -- the brown logs, the plastic red A-frames for the roof, and the green, wooden roofing slats -- and yes, there's the sifting. All the while there is a feeling of expectancy at all of these materials and their dreamy potential. "What can I build this time...?"