An incomplete set of chipped Wedgewood dishes, an old orange rug, one small table and two little chairs were in the playhouse I loved. The house was absolutely perfect as far as I was concerned, and I knew one day, if I worked very hard and lived a good life, I’d have my own grown-up version of domestic tranquility.
The playhouse was my fortress of solitude, shielding me from my little brother and his annoying friends who would zoom their hot-wheels all over the place and chase each other with sticks.
I would retreat to the quietness of my own place and relax in my miniature chair and read books, work on my sticker collection, or play with paper dolls while “dinner” cooked on the pretend stove. Sometimes, I’d make real jelly sandwiches cut into little triangles, and serve them on the flower rimmed china. After a feast fit for a queen, I’d become the scullery maid and wash the dishes to shiny perfection in the little sink Daddy crafted from a small Styrofoam ice chest that fit snuggly down into a wooden countertop.
Every now and then, I’d invite other little girls to come visit, but they always wanted to pretend it was their house too, and tried to rearrange things. One friend wanted to hang streamers from the rafters, but I had none of that. This wasn’t a wild party house, it was supposed to look elegant, like the beautiful rooms in my mother’s magazines. Loud boys were never allowed to intrude on my domestic oasis. The most well behaved guests were my two dachshunds, who loved strawberry jelly sandwiches and cleaned their own plates.
I totally understood what Peanut’s character Lucy Van Pelt meant, when she was asked what she wanted for Christmas and replied, . . . click HERE to finish the story at AL.com
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