My childhood homestead was filled with wonderment. We lived on a dead-end street that ended at field that had a path that led to dirt roads and other such adventures. Next to my house was an expansive, swaying field where an old magical barn lived. I spent much of my youth in that barn and there much of the foundation of who I have become was set. I celebrate the Barn and the Field, as well as the secret Pond that lay beyond the dirt road in my poetry collection Poems from the River.
And while there was so much nature with hidden folds and crooks for me to escape to and which I did, there was also one such place right inside my home, which I used as a back up of sort for when I couldn’t get outside to escape from whatever it was that was chasing me or to whatever it was I had wished to become me that day. This not-so-secret secret place was hidden underneath the stairs. There was my inside place to escape, to daydream, to scare myself a little, to bring myself to quiet, and it was what we called a cubby hole. It had a small door that matched the paneling of the wall and inside, where all our games and decorations and other things meant to be hidden were stored, the ceiling was low, even for a child, and it was lit by one bare light bulb with a pull chain.
Like the barn, it, too, was a place of magic…
So tell us, in the form or device of your choosing…
Where, as a child, did you go to escape, to become? Where was your Cubby Hole of magic and wonderment?
Submissions close at 7PMish, selection announced at 8PMish.
This explains things a bit.