Once upon a time, in the town of Peabody,
behind an old yellow house,
sat a little studio.
The little studio had sat behind the old yellow house,
and served the people who lived there,
for more than 200 years
and she was very happy.
Behind the studio flowed Strongwater Creek,
which burbled and gurgled
and kept the little studio company.
The little studio was painted
a cheery yellow on the front side,
and a dark brown on the backside,
and no one ever really knew why.
Long ago the little studio was a glass workshop,
the workers came in and made beautiful things
within her four walls.
She had felt helpful and useful
and liked to see the sparkling glass made there.
But now she was simply a garage,
where cars were parked,
and junk was piled,
and oil stains gathered on the floor.
But the brother and sisters and mom weren't done yet.
With scrub brushes and buckets
and soap and rags,
they scrubbed and brushed the little studio
until her wood was clean
and her grease stains were all gone.
Then the family brought in things
the little studio had never ever seen before.
Piles of colorful yarn
and wooden contraptions they called looms.
The little studio felt crowded and dizzy
and wasn't sure where everything would go.
And then another moving van came
and unloaded three big, beautiful bookshelves;
bookshelves that had held a library of books
with shelves on both sides for all the colorful cones of yarn.
And the family organized and sorted
until all the colors on all the shelves made a rainbow.
And the little studio sighed.
And then another moving van came and brought
a great rug full of the rainbow of colors that were on the shelves.
A great rug full of fabrics from coats and dresses and attics
all braided together by five ladies for one year.
And the rug went on top of the clean floor
where the oil stains had been.
And the rug and shelves smiled at each other.
And the little studio sighed a little bit more.
On a quiet summer morning,
another moving truck came,
this one from Pennsylvania.
It unloaded piles and piles of
heavy wooden pieces and ropes and weights and even computers! So many things the little studio had never seen before.
The people called these things looms, too
and they made even more mess than the yarn had.
this one with New York license plates.
Out of the truck rolled pallet after pallet after pallet
of giant cones of heavy rug yarn
right onto the little studio's floor
and weighed her down so she felt big and heavy.
The little studio thought that she might crack.
The little studio did not feel pretty anymore.
She did not feel quiet anymore.
She was so clogged with yarn that
she couldn't even hear the sound of her creek anymore.
And she was very sad.
But slowly and surely the brother and sisters and mom
came and moved the yarn.
Some of the yarn went upstairs to the little studio's attic,
some went down to the basement of the old yellow house,
and some went on the shelves in bright rainbows.
The little studio liked the rainbows of colors on the bookcases
and on the rug and on all of the yarn everywhere she looked.
And she grew to like the family, too.
Once they weren't moving stuff around,
they were actually a quiet and peaceful bunch.
Just like the creek.
Just like her.
Now the little studio sits filled with looms
and walls and floors of color.
The brother and sisters and mom come each day
to work and keep her company.
The looms gently click and clack,
the creek burbles and gurgles
and the little studio is