Not embarrassed writing
I am most embarrassed about writing about being embarrassed. These things are either so inconsequential that I can’t think of them, or so revealing that I won’t share them with you. So – let me talk about the playhouse.
When I lived in Berkeley, home to the World Dryer Corp., my father built a shed-like structure that was to be my playhouse until I outgrew it. This was a monumental step up from the refrigerator and dryer boxes that had served the purpose before. Dad situated it first near the sandbox behind the garage, and I ran there when I cut my wrist playing tag. The front storm door makes a very poor ghoul. Then, Dad moved it to a spot directly underneath and between the twin weeping willows in the back yard.
The playhouse was very tall, and had empty windows and a door that would not bar a bear, however I hung little cloths with thumbtacks in the window per my mother’s suggestion, and dragged a lawn chair in for furniture. My play consisted of tossing willow flowers and seeds in a dented camping mess kit over an imaginary cooking fire while pretending to be a pioneer. Sometimes I sat and wrote poems or stories about nature.
Gina B. and her brother Michael teased me about my playhouse, and often hinted that something might happen to it. They had cousins from Chicago, Gina had warned me, who would and could do violence to a playhouse. My family was heading home from two weeks of camping at Kentucky Lake, when I saw the sun reflected in a shine spot on the family griddle, which was sticking out of a bag wedged between the front seats and the middle bench of our VW bus. I knew then the playhouse had been destroyed.
“The playhouse is gone,” I said quietly. I repeated this for my Mom when she asked what I had said, but she told me to go back to sleep – it was my imagination.
When we pulled into the driveway, before donning my white anklets (flea catchers – another story) and rushing into the house, I ran around back to check on the playhouse. It had been smashed and turned on its side. The playhouse went away quietly over the next few days – Dad was never one to let jobs go.
I am the only one who remembers the playhouse, except for my Mom, who at least pretended to remember it for my sake. Now she is gone, too.
