Playing House

How fun is this? We're perched above the street, perched above the narrow driveway, high above Puget sound as night is falling. We're staying the night in a cottage of our very own, for this night anyway with a view we couldn't afford. There are pocket doors, a tiny four burner gas range, and a fridge stocked with our breakfast needs. There's even a hot tub with robes just for us, but that perk may remain wishful thinking with the continuous Seattle drizzle. We left our week load of dirty clothes in the rental so we're also pretending to be vagabonds with our single change of clothes in plastic bags. I've opened all the drawers; cunning little built-ins of pine in the room divider. The tv swivels back from living quarters to the bedroom area. I've opened the cabinets; here's some Olympic coffee, mix for either oatmeal or pancakes, Danish, bread. In the little fridge are eggs, milk, grapefruit, juice, yogurt....I could be set for several days.

Our hosts have a steep yard with a grassy spot about the size of our dining room. But the remainder of the lot bristles with shiny shrubs with volcanic rocks. There are lots of pots with the carcasses of last summer's occupants, so I know I would be at home in this yard in the warmer seasons too.

We've shed the downtown traffic of Seattle. We have plans for this evening with friends, then will enjoy the long morning with coffee and books before heading off to the tension and crowd of the airport. This is one of my favorite things to do and always has been; playing house with my daily comforts at my fingertips in miniature. When I was growing up, traveling by Pullman car was one kind of playing house. Staying for a week or two or six in a motel with a kitchenette encouraged one to find a routine, find a place for everything, and everything for its place. If you step on your "stuff" enough times in a sailboat, the next time around, you pack lighter and lighter until the baggage becomes two towels, two swimsuits, a tshirt, a comb and a toothbrush.

I always loved the miniature dollhouses at the Art Institute in Chicago. I always envied the girls who were fortunate enough to own and furnish the giant Victorian dollhouses (clearly for the fulfillment of moms and dads; what little seven year old tells her folks, 'what I really want from Santa is a 10 room Queen Anne mansion'? I secretly hoped my folks would buy a travel trailer when I was growing up. (Fold out beds; fold down tables; lots of cubbies) . I would never promise to travel light; sorry, I DO need surplus books; I MIGHT need one more sweatshirt. But the pleasures of stepping into our little house for the night, wherever it might be, will continue to entice and encourage. Let's nest for the night...let's find Fox News for the morning. Let's pretend to be the idle rich, or at least, the idle, and drink the whole pot of coffee on the deck with the view. I'll even make an omelet.