On the hunt for a new hideout

I was a man on a mission!

When we packed up all of our worldly possessions and placed them into a U-Haul for the adventurous journey to Ellwood City, Dad was also required to disassemble my bona fide clubhouse which he constructed less than a year before with legal tender I received inside numerous get-well cards following a near fatal sledding accident the previous Christmas.

Although the blond-haired minister promised to restore the private safe haven to its former glory, it had been three weeks to the day since our little family moved into the church parsonage in the suburbs of the mid-size industrial city north of Pittsburgh; and he hadn’t even attempted to get started on the laborious task of rebuilding the structure.

Instead, the individual pieces to my very own fortress were propped up against one of the walls inside the cinder block garage behind the Cape Cod-style dwelling collecting dust.

Due to the fact that pastoral obligations continued to pile up on the Bible scholar’s executive desk inside the giant red-brick edifice situated next to our new house, my hope of having the original clubhouse put back together again like a giant jigsaw puzzle by the time summer arrived was quickly fading into the rearview mirror; so, I was on the hunt for a new hideout.

It was time to pull myself up by the bootstraps and get to work!

Considering this curious sixth grader had already explored every single nook and cranny of the one-and-a-half-story cottage from top to bottom, I had a pretty good handle on the very best locations inside those four walls to create my own private sanctuary; so, I could escape the hustle and bustle of daily life around me.

“There’s definitely plenty of room,” this blue-eyed brownie contemplated upon opening up the walk-in closet inside the upstairs bedroom that he shared with his older brother John. “While there appears to be adequate space to put more shelving over the solid steel clothing rods, I sincerely doubt it would be sturdy enough to support my full weight.”

“After all, I was just a pint-sized first grader when the original He-Man Woman Haters Clubhouse was christened inside the boy’s bedroom closet at our former Bentleyville residence which seems like a lifetime ago,” I added with an exasperated sigh prior to closing the door on the past.

New opportunities were within reach!

Outside the entrance to my sleeping quarters at the end of the spacious upstairs hallway stood a miniature-sized door that led into the knee wall attic – a uniquely designed space where the sloped roof meets the rafters – which spanned the entire front edge of the three-bedroom home.

While my clever mother was utilizing the triangular-shaped area to store several boxes of seasonal décor as well as a few antiquated suitcases filled with our childhood memories, this determined dimpled lad was hoping to take advantage of a small fraction of the dimly lit cavity for myself; but I finally came to the conclusion that it would’ve been very cramped quarters indeed.

Running out of options on the uppermost level of the church parsonage, I decided to investigate the devil’s peak attic that was accessed through a removable ceiling panel inside an elevated closet above the descending staircase; whereupon this minister’s son snatched the desk chair from his bedroom to peer into the enormous unfinished chamber while standing on tippy-toes.

“This place is gigantic,” I thought with a Cheshire cat grin splashed across my face. “Since there’s an abundance of open rafters with insulation bulging in every direction, it would take a fair number of wooden planks to cover the whole area; but mom would put an end to the idea after spotting the first piece of wood coming into the house.”

If this adventurous trailblazer didn’t know any better, it would seem he was experiencing the Goldilocks syndrome – a place too small or a place too big – so, it was time he found a place which was just right.

Upon reaching the last step on the open staircase that led into the underbelly of the Cape Cod-style dwelling, the canning storage room under the front porch with its black tar paper-covered door was staring directly at me; but when I stepped inside, there was standing room only with wood shelving on both sides full of assorted empty Mason jars.

Another potential location for my members only club just circled the drain!

It’s a good thing I wasn’t playing baseball; otherwise, I would’ve struck out by now after coming across a wide variety of unsuitable options in a seemingly endless search for a piece of real estate to call my own.

With one last stop on my tour of potential possibilities for finding the perfect place to hang my hat, I slowly approached the door on the opposite side of the basement which led to a rather spacious room underneath the guest room/office at the end of the passageway between my parents’ bedroom and a half bath tucked next to the wrap around staircase leading to the second floor.

Eureka!

Despite the fact that there was a laminate kitchen table on one side and a floor-to-ceiling shelving unit at the other end, the nearly empty space had all the trappings of a secluded retreat with natural light coming from a window looking out at the two-car garage in the backyard and a door to shut out the hullabaloo taking place around me.

It was a blank canvas just waiting to be painted!

Shortly after rolling up my sleeves, this industrious stripling swept the cement floor and knocked down all the cobwebs in the corners before finding an extra set of curtains with a rod amongst my mom’s things in the knee wall attic to cover the window.

However, my little sisters had taken up residence with their baby dolls the following day when I came back downstairs with my manual typewriter and a few other stationary supplies.

Unfortunately for me, it was back to the drawing board!