Week 2- The first thing I ever loved #2/52

What was the first thing I ever loved?

The question came into my head one day, and as is typical with my brain, the answer popped into my head in the moments before waking, just a few days after thinking of the question.

One might guess it was the face of my mother, or Morris, my first pet. But I was specifically thinking of “thing”, some thing that affected me. And I think the first thing I ever loved was a cardboard clubhouse.

Early 70’s, New York City. A small apartment near Broadway, and my little bedroom, with windows facing the street off the avenue. My mom had cut out a few proofs-of-purchase barcodes from my Flintstones vitamins and sent them away, and one day a box arrived. She secretly assembled the contents in my room, and when I came home from wherever it is tiny children go during the day, I was stunned to find a playhouse. Constructed of cardboard, with lines on the outside that I could color in, and space inside that felt much larger than it did from the outside.

Space.

I had my own space. A four by four foot castle, a cave, a tent, a real log cabin.

Mom had even put a small lamp inside. I crept in, and then little by little I gathered all of my dolls – Cher, Holly Hobby, some Honey Hill Bunch dolls, and I surrounded myself with this audience of friends, who hung on my every word. I could sit in there and daydream, and practice curse words with my pretend imaginary friend (I knew imaginary friends weren’t real, but I wanted one anyway, if only to insult with complicated randomly syntaxed profanity) and be boss of my own little dominion. I read, napped, sang songs to myself, and was truly content.

That little clubhouse was the first thing I ever loved. It was my space, my sanctuary before I even knew the meaning of the word.

My memories won’t access how long I had that little house. It can’t have been long. After all, cardboard is cardboard, and I am not exactly the most graceful or gentle person. I was no different as a child.

I think that little cardboard house is the reason I treasure my grown up home so much. It fills me with that feeling of sanctuary, a place to be me. It’s a real life clubhouse, full of lamps and light. My little family shares the space with me. Together we paint the walls the color of love, and I don’t have to curse alone.