Admiral_Snackbar
Veni, vidi, Lionel Richie
I found this page on Tumblr the other day; a series of pictures about secret rooms in various houses, and it got me thinking deeply about my childhood, and how I - and I am sure many others - either wanted or had those secret hideaways where they got to relax and chill out.
When I was 8 years old, my family moved into a new split foyer house, which was a very popular design in the 1980s. My grandfather was a custom home builder, so we were fortunate to have it built by the family. My father was a blue-collar Ironworker, so for him to own a new home at that time in his life was a Very Big Deal.
I had the standard bedroom of course, and we had a large family room with a stone fireplace. It was magical at Christmas time, and to this day when I remember the stockings hung on the mantle, I can smell the varnish of the mantle wood, and the embers from the fireplace. I will say though, that my favorite place to be was ten feet away, under the stairs. A lot of times you hear about that place being where ghosts and goblins lived, dark and cold places described in stories to scare little children. There was even a horror movie about a psychotic family who kept their mutilated, cannibalistic children under the stairs.
Under our stairs was a makeshift storage area; all the Christmas décor went here, as well as old blankets, trinkets and various other family miscellanea. When I was 10 I went down there one morning, started pulling things out, and rearranged them to form a little sitting area in the very back, with a makeshift path leading back from the door. I ran an extension cord from the other room, grabbed a reading light, my cassette player and a couple of pillows and made a pad. I put some old blankets down for cushioning because the concrete floor was fairly cold, but the soft light and cool air was very inviting. It smelled a bit musty, not moldy or rotten but just old. I think if I had to describe to a blind person what history might smell like, I would have them smell this room. 20 years of my familys life was stored back here, innumerable crocheted blankets and sewn quilts from a half-dozen grandmas and aunts, not to mention all the ornaments, garland, lights and tinsel that came out every year to decorate the tree. My dad had an antique Nativity set that he inherited from his grandma, easily 40 years old, wrapped carefully in newspaper every year for storage under the stairs. I found my dads Marine Corps yearbook there, and delighted in learning about that time of his youth out of high school.
This room became my sanctuary, my hiding place, and my relaxation room. My dad pretty much commandeered the TV when he was home, so back here I could read, listen to music, and take the cat naps I was so fond of. My sister would cuddle back there and I would read to her. I made out with a girlfriend there at one point, sitting in the dark, both of us nervous. My reading varied widely; one day I would be deep into Tolkien, walking across Mordor, another day Id be reading about Melniboné and the terrible battles of Elric and his soul-eating sword. My dad bought me a World Book Encyclopedia set which I read voraciously, and Id spend hours in that little cubby learning about Lincoln, spiders, space travel and how clocks worked. It was a fondly remembered time in my childhood, where I lay among blankets sewn by hands long since gone from the world, smelling the cool, dry air, with the music and words taking me to places built only in my imagination.
Not every wardrobe leads to a Narnia. A place of fun and fantasy need not be a lush, secret garden. Its important for children to realize they can find solace anywhere, in any situation, and are limited only by their minds and their ability to imagine. Its equally important for adults, who often forget they too were once children, to remember that youre never too old to play, never too old to dream, and never too old to find your happy place in the world.
View attachment secret_room (Small).jpg
When I was 8 years old, my family moved into a new split foyer house, which was a very popular design in the 1980s. My grandfather was a custom home builder, so we were fortunate to have it built by the family. My father was a blue-collar Ironworker, so for him to own a new home at that time in his life was a Very Big Deal.
I had the standard bedroom of course, and we had a large family room with a stone fireplace. It was magical at Christmas time, and to this day when I remember the stockings hung on the mantle, I can smell the varnish of the mantle wood, and the embers from the fireplace. I will say though, that my favorite place to be was ten feet away, under the stairs. A lot of times you hear about that place being where ghosts and goblins lived, dark and cold places described in stories to scare little children. There was even a horror movie about a psychotic family who kept their mutilated, cannibalistic children under the stairs.
Under our stairs was a makeshift storage area; all the Christmas décor went here, as well as old blankets, trinkets and various other family miscellanea. When I was 10 I went down there one morning, started pulling things out, and rearranged them to form a little sitting area in the very back, with a makeshift path leading back from the door. I ran an extension cord from the other room, grabbed a reading light, my cassette player and a couple of pillows and made a pad. I put some old blankets down for cushioning because the concrete floor was fairly cold, but the soft light and cool air was very inviting. It smelled a bit musty, not moldy or rotten but just old. I think if I had to describe to a blind person what history might smell like, I would have them smell this room. 20 years of my familys life was stored back here, innumerable crocheted blankets and sewn quilts from a half-dozen grandmas and aunts, not to mention all the ornaments, garland, lights and tinsel that came out every year to decorate the tree. My dad had an antique Nativity set that he inherited from his grandma, easily 40 years old, wrapped carefully in newspaper every year for storage under the stairs. I found my dads Marine Corps yearbook there, and delighted in learning about that time of his youth out of high school.
This room became my sanctuary, my hiding place, and my relaxation room. My dad pretty much commandeered the TV when he was home, so back here I could read, listen to music, and take the cat naps I was so fond of. My sister would cuddle back there and I would read to her. I made out with a girlfriend there at one point, sitting in the dark, both of us nervous. My reading varied widely; one day I would be deep into Tolkien, walking across Mordor, another day Id be reading about Melniboné and the terrible battles of Elric and his soul-eating sword. My dad bought me a World Book Encyclopedia set which I read voraciously, and Id spend hours in that little cubby learning about Lincoln, spiders, space travel and how clocks worked. It was a fondly remembered time in my childhood, where I lay among blankets sewn by hands long since gone from the world, smelling the cool, dry air, with the music and words taking me to places built only in my imagination.
Not every wardrobe leads to a Narnia. A place of fun and fantasy need not be a lush, secret garden. Its important for children to realize they can find solace anywhere, in any situation, and are limited only by their minds and their ability to imagine. Its equally important for adults, who often forget they too were once children, to remember that youre never too old to play, never too old to dream, and never too old to find your happy place in the world.
View attachment secret_room (Small).jpg
