My grandfather carved out the attic in my childhood home in Southern California for my sister and me. We called it “the playroom.” It was a magical room where dolls were my babies, and the wooden rocking chair soothed them to sleep. This is where I dreamed of being a mother. The hand-crafted kitchen cupboard with drawers, countertops, and a sink was filled with miniature cookware and plates with little roses around the edges. This is where I fantasized about being a wife someday, just like my mom. The turquoise-colored carpet that felt rough under my feet and the slanted roof gave me the sensation of being in a cozy cabin. The window at the far end could be opened when it rained, and the smell of wet leaves from the lemon groves behind our house was a scent I’ll never forget. The drops of rain sounded like pebbles hitting the roof. This is how I learned to love rainy days.
It was the perfect spot to read a good book and get lost in the adventures of The Trixie Belden mysteries. I learned the art of snooping or eavesdropping in the Playroom. I found the air vent in the floor connected to the air vent in the family room below. Hours were spent listening and gathering tidbits of data – just like Nancy Drew. This is where I dreamed of being a writer.
I hoped my children, one day, would have a little magical spot where they could dream about flying to the moon or being a detective solving crimes. Whatever the dream, every child needs a special place, all their own.
Pam Torres | Author 