Remember that cubbyhole in your grandmother’s house? The perfect place to play? All children should experience one.
My best childhood cubbyhole memories took place in the old house in small town South Dakota owned by my two maiden aunts.
For starters, it had the ultimate hidey-hole, a coal bin that lurked in the dark recesses of the basement. By the time I was old enough to explore the earthen-floored, cobwebby bin, my aunts had changed from coal to fuel oil, but that didn’t detract from its allure. The spooky lair feel given off by its blackened floor and shadowy walls was fascinating, and we cousins used it frequently in our hide and seek games.
Aunt Jessie’s walkin closet was another favorite small, out-of-theway place. In addition to housedresses, sweaters and shoes, it held a lovely glass fronted book case. The closet’s shiny, wood floor and the polished oak shelves of the bookcase were a perfect background for paper doll games, and Aunt Jessie never minded if my sister and I left our paper dolls scattered on the floor or the bookcase doors open.
Aunt Susan’s closet provided another unique room, but it wasn’t the place itself, it was the way she used it. Each morning, while I lay still, pretending to sleep, modest Aunt Susan disappeared into its roomy depths to get dressed.
Once inside this safe haven, she not only put on her clothes but practiced her daily mental health routine. As she dressed, probably pulling on her girdle and strapping on her corset (she had a bad back), Aunt Susan scolded everybody who’d ever slighted or annoyed her. Not only did she berate those who’d recently wronged her, she complained of any and all woes and grievances.
Pretending to sleep, I listened to her, mesmerized by her emotional outburst ready to see her burst out of the closet, madder than a wet hen, but she never did. She always glided out as if nothing had happened and cheerfully left the room to fix breakfast.
Most houses of my childhood had small, out-of-the-way rooms. My neighborhood friend Naomi’s house had walled-in attic eaves which served as two tunnel-like cubbyholes running the length of the house—perfect as a hidden fort or a secret club meeting place. My parent’s house had an unused fruit cellar that we kids treated as a permanent Halloween spook house.
If there’s any way I’ve failed my grandchildren, it’s by not providing them with cubbyholes. All children should enjoy the experience.
I really should build one.
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