This was my hide-away, a place where no one was allowed to enter unless they had my permission. As best I could at seven years of age, I had roughly nailed and tied together with string what pieces of wood and scrap I could find, to partially obstruct the entrance. Only another child of my slim build could crawl in. A large neighboring pine tree provided a messy but somewhat trustworthy roof. The furniture inside consisted of a small bench and a flat-surfaced stump of wood. The occasional guest was served tea from my miniature porcelain tea set.
Finally I had a space that neither my controlling mother nor my older sister could enter. My family respected my “little camp”, as it was called, and did not try to intrude. I felt like a queen holding court over my dolls one day, Robin Hood at peace in his private compound the other day.All things change. Over the years, I literally outgrew the space. Wooden boards fell down and did not get replaced. Too cramped now, child’s play, judged the pre-teen.
Does my hide-away still exist? Maybe. Or the neighbors, in good orderly German fashion, redrew the property lines and erected more consistent, continuous fences.I am grateful for my little hide-away memories. A tiny bit of disorder or lack of structure can be a wonderful gift for a child.