I was never one for haunted houses. Real life held enough terror. My first grade teacher wore a frightening black habit with wispy veils that floated behind her like shadowy spirits. Around her waist hung a giant rosary, a brass key ring, and full-size scissors on a long metal chain as though she might, on a whim, snip off a child’s nose. She clanked when she walked like the ghost of Marley.

My work is exciting. My kids are smart and happy. The dog sits on command. Most times. Although I can’t take credit for these things I do take a certain pride in them. But that is nothing compared to the ridiculous amount of pride I take in my house, a pride that could be justified only if I had personally chopped, milled and hammered the frame myself. While blindfolded.

When people see my nutty house and my out-there deck (in process), there are several standard responses. Laughter is probably top of the list, followed by polite noncommittal-ness. But one question almost always gets posed: How do you think of this stuff?

My kid wanted a dollhouse. She may as well have asked for a pink sparkly dress to compete in a Honey Boo Boo beauty pageant. A dollhouse? I was of the generation that equated domesticity with lobotomy. I wanted more for my daughter.

I miss plastic bags. They’re banned in Portland. I miss the way they got caught in little whirlwinds on dirty city streets to drift upward from the gutter, spiraling toward a cloudless blue sky with a great soundtrack and . . . oh, wait; that was a scene from American Beauty.