Between Lumber Piles and Lost Afternoons

Quietly slipping out of bed to avoid waking my sister, I put on the shorts and shirt I had worn the day before. The early sunlight was just beginning to filter through the olive-green sheers covering the windows, and I used the soft light to locate my socks and shoes, which lay beneath our small white desk. At the top of the stairs, I made sure to stay close to the paneled wall, where the creaking steps were less audible, as I headed toward the kitchen for breakfast.

Mom was still asleep in my parents' bedroom adjacent to the kitchen, the door left slightly open. Not wanting to disturb her, I stood on my tiptoes to switch on the stove’s back light. Then, I pulled a chair away from the table to reach a cereal bowl and a glass inside the upper cabinet. To get the cereal, I gently pressed the Lazy Susan cabinet door, hoping to avoid pinching my fingers when it slid open. Taking out a box of Life cereal, I poured a generous amount into my bowl before placing the box back in the cabinet. From the refrigerator, I retrieved the large glass bottle of milk, hugged it to my chest, and carefully carried it to the table. Our milk came in five-quart mayonnaise jars, recovered by Mom from her school kitchen. Without a pouring spout, trying to pour milk onto cereal was quite tricky for small hands. To solve this, I opened a drawer, grabbed the soup ladle, and carefully scooped the milk onto my cereal.

As I quietly sat in the cozy kitchen eating breakfast, the soft light of dawn streamed through the window above the sink. The world outside was still peaceful and fresh, filled with the gentle sounds of birds chirping and the faint rustle of leaves in the early breeze. My small hand grasped the spoon with anticipation, knowing that soon I would dash outside to greet the day, lawn sprinkled with dew and endless opportunities for adventure. The cool, sweet taste of cereal fueled my excitement as I savored this calm moment before unleashing my energy by playing in the hayloft, biking down sun-dappled streets, or feeling the warm sun on my skin as I reclined in the cool grass. This quiet, simple kitchen moment was a gentle pause, a bridge between a restful night and spirited play, capturing the magic of summer.

After finishing the last bite, I grabbed a tall glass of fresh juice from the fridge, the sweet, tangy flavors instantly reviving me as I gulped it down eagerly. Not wasting a moment, I quickly rinsed the dishes in the sink, the cool water washing away the remnants of my meal before I placed them neatly on the counter to dry. Feeling energized and carefree, I dashed outside, the warm sunshine beckoning me to run and play. The sense of freedom as I sprinted across the yard with the breeze brushing against my face made that simple moment one of pure joy and childhood delight.

Reaching the garage, I extended my hand to undo the old bolt, then grasped the plain handle of the garage's side door and pulled it open. The rusty hinges groaned as the door swung ajar, exposing the cool dirt floor beneath our tan 1967 Chevy. Carefully, I slipped between the car’s bumper and the wooden door to approach the series of two-by-fours fastened to the side wall. Although it was a challenge to get my foot onto the lowest rung of the improvised ladder, I succeeded in hoisting myself up with my arms to climb into the loft above.

Carefully climbing through the small hole in the squeaky wooden planks, I pulled myself onto the loft floor and stood upright, taking in the sight of my dusty refuge. Soft morning light filtered through the small, grimy window, illuminating this hidden sanctuary—a neglected space frozen in time, lined with old timber, corners draped in cobwebs, and shelves packed with artifacts from days gone by. The air carried the heavy aroma of aged wood and faded memories, creating a quiet haven where the outside world seemed to disappear. As I scanned the room, a wave of tranquility enveloped me while I moved through my secret hideaway toward the swinging loft door at the far end of this dust-laden retreat, throwing it wide open.

Perched in the open loft doorway, I swung my legs out the opening, the cool morning breeze teasing the hairs on my arms as I surveyed the quiet neighborhood below. The rising sun stretched across the familiar rooftops and gravel streets. From this little perch, I could see Mrs. Royston climbing into her car across the street while bunnies played in the long grass of the alleyway. I felt a peaceful stillness in the air, a perfect pause as I waited for my best friend Carla to arrive. The anticipation bubbled quietly inside me, mingling with the comforting sights and sounds of the neighborhood slowly coming to life, making this simple moment of waiting feel like a treasured memory in the making.

When Carla arrived, an unexpected burst of creativity took hold of us, inspiring a spontaneous transformation of the cluttered loft into an imaginative classroom. Surrounded by piles of lumber and a collection of stored items that once seemed like nothing more than clutter, we saw potential. With a shared vision, we began clearing space, repurposing wooden planks into sturdy desks and benches, and using old crates and boxes as makeshift shelves and storage units. The loft, once a neglected storage area, quickly took on new life as an impromptu classroom.

Carla and I naturally took on the roles of teachers, eager to inspire and lead our future “students” on captivating educational adventures. Yet, before entering the classroom, we had an important initial task: collecting our old schoolbooks. We hurried to forgotten nooks in our homes, uncovering tattered textbooks, well-thumbed novels, and vibrant storybooks that had once ignited our imaginations. Each volume carried memories and lessons, ready to be passed on once again. Assembling these cherished books felt like creating a personal library designed to spark curiosity and wonder in our pupils. Holding these stacks closely, we experienced a thrilling blend of excitement and responsibility—knowing that these pages would soon connect our knowledge with the new discoveries of our students, signaling the start of our shared teaching journey.

Afterward, we gathered the little boys from down the street, their faces filled with eager curiosity and excitement, to become our attentive students. Together, we climbed up to the loft where our improvised classroom awaited. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath our steps, while the soft light from the small window and open loft door bathed the space in a warm, welcoming glow—ideal for learning and exploration. Surrounded by dusty books, half-used notebooks, and desks crafted from crates and wooden planks, we dove into numerous imaginative lessons. By noon, the boys grew weary of our strict instructions and learning goals, so they climbed down the ladder and happily skipped home for lunch.

Every summer morning began in the same way: the gentle rays of the sun filtered through the lone window of the loft, creating striped patterns on the wooden floor. Each day Carla and I would eagerly gather, our eyes shining with anticipation, prepared to turn the modest loft into a brand-new escapade. Using stacks of wood, worn blankets, and any ancient artifacts we could repurpose as props, we transformed the area into various imaginative settings—one day a wagon transporting Laura and Mary across the vast prairie, the next a snug cabin hidden deep within a magical forest. Regardless of how often we altered the arrangement, the loft became a wondrous haven where our creativity flourished, and every nook promised a fresh tale, a new game, or a lasting memory.

For many summers, that loft grew beyond being a simple hideaway or an improvised classroom; it became the core of my childhood, a space where friendship, imagination, and exploration blended seamlessly. The summer after finishing high school, I easily climbed the ladder that had once felt towering and out of reach. Squeezing through the small opening in the floor, I found myself once more surrounded by dust and lumber. Quietly maneuvering over piles of forgotten wood and abandoned toys, I pushed open the loft door one final time. Lowering myself down to sit, I let my legs dangle out the roughly formed gap, watching the sun set behind the rooftops and bathe the familiar streets in golden light. A quiet sense of gratitude washed over me for this overlooked corner of the world, which had provided not only endless adventures but also a wealth of cherished memories. Smiling softly, I whispered to the fading daylight, “Thank you for the memories, old friend.”