My Happy Place

It's late and I should be in bed because morning comes too soon around here these days. But I've been thinking. A lot. Thinking about where I am in my life and about all the things around me that have made me who I am. All the people that have come and gone who have left memories in my head. And places where I can close my eyes and imagine I am. Happy places.

The cottage.

One of my earliest memories is of the cottage. Summer meant weeks on end spent there. The musty smell when we'd open the front door, the sound of the curtains as they'd open and let the sunlight flood in, the sand in the beds, the sweltering attic that was always packed full of stacked old mattresses. I'd clambor up onto that stack and then launch myself off onto a pile of pillows I had dragged up from the living room.

As night would come the grown-ups would sit on the veranda with sweaty highballs and talk with hushed voices, while us kids would giggle and steal pink pistachios from the bowl on the kitchen table. We never figured out how our parents always knew we'd been stealing pistachios. Now I see my boys' pink fingertips. When one of the parents would stand to come inside I'd stiffen my body and press my eyes closed; holding my breath afraid to breathe in case they realized I was still awake. I know they must have heard us.

Outside there's this chair on the veranda. Painted so many times the screw heads have all but disappeared. Soft cushions cover the seat and back. When I sit in it I am just the perfect height to watch the water for hours over the railing and not have to move. As a kid I would bring my cross stitch projects to that chair. It has arms that are perfectly wide enough to balance a can of Coke on. There's a rug on the porch that is worn almost through in places. The fringe has been matted and tangled from the decades of families wiping their feet.

Inside, the walls are paneled with nails poking out of them where pictures once hung. Mirrors grace every wall and remind me that I haven't brushed my hair yet today and that I'm still in my pyjamas as the clock ticks toward noon. In one corner the wood stove sits idle, waiting for fall when we'll fill it up with logs to warm our frozen hands. A vase of white silk flowers stand erect on the kitchen table that is covered by an old bedspread with a jungle theme and tigers. My boys love the tiger tablecloth. I could show you all the old stains on it from when I was a little girl and my pink popsicle dribbled down my hand and soaked into the tiger's paw.

It's not a new cottage or an elegant, luxurious cottage. It stands on stilts that are slowly sinking into the earth, tilting the floors and forcing door jambs out of square. But this cottage that smells funny and is host to any number of creatures is also my happy place. Driving down the road that leads to the cottage, suddenly I feel lighter and breathe easier. My stress is gone. No longer do I think about laundry, email, or vegetables for dinner. No telephones ring because there aren't any. The television with rabbit ear antennae stays tucked against the wall. We can't find the remote and no one cares. There's no need to watch TV.

I share my happy place with my boys. Today on the way home Shaun was crying because he wanted to stay at the cottage forever. He has a happy place, too.