Closet Under the Stairs

Thirty-something years ago, my family took a road trip to New Hampshire. I was not yet ten years old. My parents bundled me, my older sister, and my grandparents into the station wagon, and we drove north.

We rented a house in the mountains somewhere. I was young, and have vague recollections of this trip, but a few things in particular stand out: I distinctly remember that our rental was in the woods, among the trees. The scenery was different than the familiar landscape of Maryland. The house was tall, with a third floor loft that I thought was the coolest. You had to climb a ladder to get all the way up to the top. I don't really like ladders, though, so while interesting, that was not the most intriguing part of the property for me.

My favorite part of this house was a small closet on the main floor. It was the type of walk-in closet that you typically find built in underneath a staircase. The only thing in the closet was a vacuum cleaner, so there was plenty of space for me. Whenever the grown-ups spent too much time talking about grown-up things, or my sister didn't want her kid sister tagging along, I would hide in the closet under the stairs, happily sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor, reading my book.

If memory serves, my parents thought that was weird, and kept trying to draw me out of what they viewed as my anti-social hideaway. What I now realize, with the wisdom of many years between my adult self now and my child self then, is that I am a natural introvert, and while not shy, at times I do need my secret lair in which to retreat from conversation and company. I crave alone time, and more than that, I need the space, quiet and unbothered, in which to be on my own.

I still need that type of space to this day. In an interesting twist of fate, I have recently moved from my home state of Maryland to New Hampshire, just a short half hour's drive north of where we rented that house many years ago. Moving was a difficult endeavor, fraught with stress and emotion. Many times, I needed that small space in which to retreat and be still. The demands of moving did not allow for much time for reflection, however. The stress began to mount.

Once in New Hampshire, a good friend came with me for the drive and for moral support. At one point during our weekend of exploring the neighboring towns, we were discussing whether or not to go out and find another fun thing to do, or just go home. "Let's go back to your little cocoon," she said, referring to my new apartment. I knew immediately that I could weather the change in circumstance from the comfortable familiarity of my home state to the new beginning I had before me. I knew I would be okay, because I have in my apartment, another little closet under the stairs. I had been worried that apartment living would be noisy and stressful, when in reality, I chose a quiet place, where I don't hear much except for the occasional plane flying overhead, reminding me of all of the possibilities for travel that are right here at my fingertips.

I am grateful to have found another little place to call home, even if for a short time.