THE PLAYHOUSE

   As I sat outside this morning, a cool (thank the good Lord, at last) breeze wafted through as I drank my coffee and watched our little Doxle (1/2 dachshund, 1/2 beagle), Blue, chasing bugs and deviling Kate, the barn cat.  I looked over to the fenced in play yard.

   My daughter bought this beautiful home on almost four acres, more than we needed certainly, for herself, another daughter and me. It came equipped with a lighted tennis court and basketball hoop, which we also didn't need, and a play yard, fenced in white vinyl. There is a wonderful swing set, one of those tree-house lookalikes with a covered, snaky slide, and a brick playhouse with air conditioner.  The yard is shaded by three very large pine trees.  I thought we should have a name on the playhouse, such as "Three Pines Lodge."

   Anyway, I felt nostalgic and a little sad that the yard is not being used.  Infrequent visits by grandchildren and their offspring will be the only time the yard will see any action.

   The nostalgia decided my blog for today. It's about my own playhouse, built about 76 years ago now.

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     When I was about four years old, Gramma hired a carpenter to build a backyard playhouse. Andy was a tow-headed Swede, with accent, forty-something, and in need of extra work. This was the 1930s Depression, remember. My grandparents were fortunate. Grampa worked steadily at the Liberty Buffet Saloon in downtown Los Angeles. Gramma took in sewing and there was a little income from tenant farmers on the Missouri homestead. Our backyard farm supplemented the necessities. I never knew deprivation.

     The playhouse was this child's ideal special place. Painted white with green trim, like the main house, it had a front stoop, a planted flower box affixed to the wall on one side of the front door and a mailbox, both crafted and painted by Gramma, on the other. On the sunny side of the house was a huge window, nearly the length of the house. It could be propped open with a stick, attached to the frame.

     Inside, hand-made, white piquet curtains hung from a rod, trimmed with red, yellow and blue rick-rack. They were closed for shade or at night. There were built-in cupboards for my green depression glass tea set, jelly glasses, small pots and pans and assorted crayons, jacks, Old Maid cards and board games. Tongue and groove drawers kept silverware and napkins. Also built in was a desk with cubby holes and a lid that dropped down for a writing surface. Encompassing the room was a wraparound shelf near the ceiling. Looking down on the room were stuffed animals. My favorites were Disney's Big Bad Wolf and the Three Little Pigs. Storage boxes with more toys were neatly stacked on the shelf, as well. A step stool beside the door put everything within reach.

     The Dionne Quintuplets and their nurse sat in a decorated box on the floor in one corner. A white table and two chairs occupied the middle of the room Against the wall, under the window, was a miniature chintz sofa, big enough for two. Two Shirley Temple dolls (I'll tell you how I got two sometime) stood in their corner with a trunk full of extra clothes, made by Gramma. Somehow there was room for a small crib and wicker baby buggy for Betsy Wetsy. At one time, over the years, I counted 150 dolls and stuffed toys crowding the space. Movie star paper dolls, whose wardrobes two neighbor girls and I added to regularly, were tucked into several small boxes inside a larger box.

     The house was wired. My small green and white electric stove actually baked cookies and fried fresh eggs. A small collapsible ironing board and electric iron smoothed doll clothes. I guess Gramma trusted me not to burn down the house or electrocute myself. A counter affixed to the back wall held a wash pan for doing dishes and a rack for wash cloths and towels. A little broom and dustpan were propped in a corner.

     Occasionally the neighbor girl, who was one day to become my sister-in - law, and I slept in the playhouse on warm summer evenings. We felt secure with a ceiling light and a porch light. Of course, my Boston Bulldog, Nippie, kept us company. Her snoring would discourage intruders - and keep us awake.

     I outgrew the playhouse and dolls, of course. Eventually, neglected, faded and dingy, it looked like what it had become, a storage shed. I remained in Gramma's house until we moved away just before my last year in college. I had often looked out my bedroom window and smiled inwardly, remembering hours upon hours of blissful, innocent fun in the playhouse, dreaming little girl dreams. Leaving it behind, along with the backyard farm, the swing set and the mockinbirds' apricot tree was wrenching. My entire life to that point had been spent in one warm, enveloping environment. Being almost 21 years old did not prevent the lump filling my throat as I took one last, wistful look. It is all still vivid in my 80 year old mind.

9/17/11