Cubbyholes

I was once asked to give one word that would describe my childhood and I believe at the time I said something like "hectic" but thinking back on it I would say either "chaotic" or simply "loud".
Last November when I last visited my sister I asked her the same question and she also said "chaos". It made me feel better that she had the same sort of memory.

I don't want to imply that my childhood was bad. Compared to the shit vats some of my acquaintences and friends endured during their childhoods I would say that I got off fairly well. And when I really think back on my childhood there seems to be a lot of things that I've forgotten or don't have clear memories of. I think that's supposed to be a bad sign when you forget chunks of your past but I'm not exactly sure if it's outright forgetting or if it's just that the chaos and the constant noise ended up masking a lot. What memories I do have of my family life revolves around some antic of one of my brothers, squabbling to the point of outright screamfests between us, uproar, tense moods, raised voices and if it ever did get quiet we were usually waiting for the chaos to begin again. Even holiday meals were an exercise in wondering how fast my oldest brother would piss off my father and they'd be at it. Screaming and name calling. So tasty with the cranberry relish.

One thing I thank my parents for is allowing me to have my own bedroom. Up until the age of six I shared a room with my older sister and this was not a good match. She's seven years older than me and a neatnick. There are few four year old neatnicks in the world and I wasn't one of them. Not having my sister scream at me for meddling in her belongings or for leaving my toys all over did add a bit of harmony in my life.

Having my own room allowed me to get away from the chaos going on in the rest of the house. And when I got away, I really got away. Not only would I hole up in my room but I'd hole up within my hole. I had arranged the furniture so that my dresser stood away from a corner of the room wide enough for me to fit in a straight back chair in the nook it created. It's there that I would sit, hidden by the tall dresser, and I'd read. My books were stacked beside me and I'd whip through them like a fat man goes through a bag of Lays. I'd even taped a piece of notebook paper to the side of the dresser so I could make a list of the books I was currently reading and make a check when the book was finished.

It was in my corner where I traveled with Stuart Little in his tiny convertable that could become invisible. It was there that tagged along with Nancy Drew as she solved mystery after mystery. In my corner is where I reveled in the quiet of the Zuckerman's farm and watched Charlotte spin her web. My hidden spot is where I became a pioneer girl and traveled from Wisconsin to Minnesota to the Dakotas with the Ingalls family and wished I could live with them because they were quiet.

Had Harry Potter been written when I was a kid I may have never come out from behind the dresser.

I've never outgrown my craving to hole up and be left in peace. It's easier now because I have married the world's most quiet man. I no longer wedge myself between a wall and a dresser but I still seek out the quiet places in my mind.

And truth be told, there are times when I miss the chaos my family has to offer. It can still be a loud, hectic experience to be with them but it doesn't seem so threatening now.