a poem in my pocket

The crawl space of childhood’s basement offered an obvious place for our secret club. We climbed red-bench invitation to reach spool knob and swing open a wide (but very short) plywood door; then clambered up, one-by-one, into our hide-out. Sliding over corrugated cardboard flooring, the first brave soul would pull the string to a single lightbulb. Neighborhood kids formed collaborative huddle amid boxes of empty canning jars and old books. Dark, cobwebbed corners added aura of mystery (not to mention arachnid fear) to our clandestine meetings. With conspiratorial whispers, we’d conduct official club business and ritual passing of candy before breaking out the “Peanuts” board game. Hanging out with Charlie Brown’s gang, we rolled the dice, collected comic character tiles, and took our turns in the “Booby Hatch”.

childhood memories

password protected clubhouse

friendship’s secret code