Even though I was the second one born into a family of 5 kids, it always felt crowded. Home base was a small new development in Southern Calif, surrounded by fruit orchards and tomato fields. My dad was a mechanic, and my mom an artist. There were 5 of us, in a 3 bedroom duplex, one full bath, and one/half bath. There was no separate dining room, or living room. The small kitchen was also the place where we ate around a formica table. The hallway that I used to run down and skid with my socks on, was an endless place of delight. I learned to climb the walls by putting one foot on one wall, the other foot on the wall directly across and climb. I could do this in doorways too. It was also the place of terror at night, when I had to walk down the corridor to my room. Ghosts and monsters would surely jump out at any minute to drag me to my death. I saw enough TV to know these things were true. I didn't sleep well in my bed. I knew that if I stretched out my legs to the end, wild German Shepherd dogs would eat my toes. I could never sleep with my back to the door. I still can't. I need to be able to see what is coming at me. Real or imaginative.
When my littlest sister was born, I was 13. There were 2 boys and 2 girls. My parents announced at dinner one night, that there would be one more soon. We immediately had a family meeting to discuss and vote on the name. We got our heads together and decided Zorro would be a fitting name to our new sibling. We also knew that the next addition would either go in the boys room or the girls room. We were already crowded, and there seemed to be little room for another. The baby, whatever it was, would spend the first month, not in a bassinet in my parents room, but in a pulled out drawer, lined with towels. I thought it was quite clever. Even though we never closed the drawer, I'm sure there were moments in the middle of the night, that we wanted too. A girl was born, and in our room she went.
There was so much daily activity and not a moments peace. There was also not a place to call my own. Even the bathroom was shared, or at least someone standing at the door needing to use it. Mornings were always a race to see who could get there first. I was laying in bed one night, back to the wall, legs pulled up, and decided I needed a place to call my own. I noticed a baseboard beside my bed, and thought "A secret hideaway". I took a small knife, and started sawing. Each night, when everyone was asleep, I sawed away with my dull dinner knife. Eventually, I broke through. Mission accomplished. I then constructed a small box to insert in the opening. My very own space. I put all my treasures in there. The ones that I didn't want anyone to know about.
20 years later, my folks were remodeling the room that had been vacated by all three girls. The bunk bed came down, and it was then that they discovered my secret hiding place. I got a call one night from my sisters and parents. They were all laughing at the discovery. "Was it mine?" they asked. I had forgotten about it for many many years. A moment of panic hit, as I tried to remember what I might have put in there. Some secret note...Maybe a stolen cigarette or two. No, just a empty box full of childhood memories.
In the midst of the overcrowded family, I carved out a place all my own. It was small, and hidden, but it was mine. Now as an adult, I have a nice home and in it aroom to call my own. I don't share it with the kids or even my husband. I want it to my mine alone. There is also, I think, places in each of our hearts that are not only hidden, but private. Its the part of us, that takes care of ourselves. Its the place that says that no matter what happens, I can find the place to find strength, and hope filled with whatever I need at the time. I'm glad that when my family found my hidden box it was empty. I know what was in it, all along. Me.
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