Jar, jar... what will you bring today? I've been really guilty of digging through and finding one I want to write about and throwing back those I don't want to write about. Just goes to show that if you break a rule once, it gets easier to break the rule the next time. And here is what I "chose" to have the Jar say...
Did you have a childhood hideout? Where? Describe it.
I am not sure what it means by "hideout". If it means a clubhouse or something then, no, I didn't really have one. We did find a bush in our neighbor's backyard that was sort of hollow in the middle. It was more of my brother's hideout than mine. He, my older sister and his friends scoured the "spring cleanup" piles on the curbside and found things like old chairs and little tables to furnish it with. It was rather cool... but not MY hideout.
I had no clubhouse-ish place to call my own, but I did have a literal hideout where I went when I was sad, mad, frustrated or hurting and I didn't want anyone to find or bother me. We called it "The Sleeping Bag Place". It was this funky little closet that butted right up against our dryer in our basement. It was full of all our sleeping bags and we had many. As you can imagine, it was a good place to go and cry, all squishy with sleeping-bag-goodness, I would lay down in there and vent my frustrations. It was extra good if the dryer was running because, not only was the dryer warm in a cold basement, but the noise allowed me to cry with small sobbing noises, rather than condemning myself to total silence, my heart bursting with emotion.
This was also a place that my little sister and I would go and play when we were trying to do so stealthily, without my little brother. That didn't happen much but I have a few clear memories of Lacy and I playing in "The Sleeping Bag Place".
Another memory that's surfacing about this "hideout" involves some of my quirky childhood sleeping habits. For a few years I went through a phase where I was a traveling sleeper. I would wake up in the night and go upstairs to the bathroom. For reasons unknown, I would not go back to my bed but to the couch in the living room where I would fall asleep for a while. Awakening sometime later, usually because I was cold, I would proceed to lay in front of the heat register (if it was winter) and fall asleep in forced-air heaven. When the heater went off, or when I woke up, I would go to the couch in the family room where I'd sleep for a while, then wake up and move on to "The Sleeping Bag Place". It was here that my sleep traveling escapades would conclude. There were rare occasions that I would end up back in my bed, but, mostly, my memory finds me waking up in that secret place, baffling my mother as she went to my vacant bed to wake me up.
Good stuff, these memories. Good stuff.