The best playgrounds, for a kid like me, were construction sites. Some new house was always going up in our neighborhood, and builders went home early, leaving everything open, available, inviting. Scaffolding to climb, planks to walk, mountains of dirt, tools left out. Of course playing in these places was verboten; hence, irresistible.
The best was after the framing, but before finished walls. With house bones revealed, like an X-ray, my imagination soared -- an airy skeleton of framing sticks suggested convoluted mansions of endless possibility. Upstairs rooms, accessible only via ladders, hinted secrets; entire first floors remained open, unassigned. But once the envelope was sealed, it was all over.
Which might explain my youthful fascination with the insides of people's houses. I had it so bad, my mom hesitated to take me anywhere, knowing I'd take off, exploring. Bathrooms, especially, were an obsession -- however many there were, I wanted in. Tolerable curiosity, in a little kid (who would soon outgrow it, surely?)
It struck (a slightly older) me, while sitting in an (unwitting) neighbor's lovely rose-covered gazebo, that most of the houses on our street were empty all day. And in that town, lots of people didn't bother to lock their doors. What if I just slipped inside? After all, some of those houses were old playmates -- I'd hung from their rafters. I could re-check them out, hang out, dream anew. Wouldn't hurt a thing. Might even do the dishes, like a helpful brownie -- leave only a mystery!
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