My grandparents' house, small, white, utilitarian; detached garage with no doors stuffed with cars and junk on a postage stamp working class suburban plot.
The basement access stairs covered in English ivy: such a good hiding place. Grapevines, and the wires that supported them--I never ate the grapes but I walked between the wires and the back fence in my own hidden corridor.
The garage sat only a foot from the fenceline and only a child could squeeze back there. Nothing to see or find, but there was a sort of magic in the proportions.
Oooh, I really like that last line.
ReplyDeleteOh, this whole post is so evocative.
ReplyDeleteLove this. Hiding places are so important when we're young.
ReplyDeleteMali said what I was thinking. Makes me think of all my hiding places as a kid.
ReplyDelete