The Clubhouse Blog

I.

I creak open the door labeled “The Red Nose Tavern.” A metallic man with a red painted nose is the doorkeeper, but he never questions my entry. I walk past the work table, lined with plastic drawer sets — the many-sized compartments are filled with screws, bolts, nails, hooks, and other metal shrapnel for creating.

I turn the small corner to find the ladder that leads up to my clubhouse. Grandma is waiting for me and she already has the pink plastic teacups and fresh-baked foam cookies set out on a wooden footstool. I was almost late for tea!

I notice that she’s hung up a drawing of someone I don’t know on the walls. It appears to be some giant-headed woman with a tennis racket and ball. She’s tossing the ball up and looking at it in a way that seems like she might bite it with her giant teeth.

After tea, grandma and I color and paint. She likes to add sketches of squirrels into my discarded coloring pages. I’m always impressed by her ability to draw — I wonder why she isn’t featured in the art museum where she takes me every week. I love her squirrels. Sometimes they wear letter jackets.

She also paints fruit on the “kitchen” wall. The piece of plywood is now adorned with oranges, pears, and apples. I pretend they are real fruits on a shelf or recipes for smoothies I create in a wooden stove.

II.

The plastic draws are now sticking out at different angles. The metal things are rusted. The shed is rundown and covered in layers of dust. A Harley Davidson charm hanging from a chain is barely recognizable from corrosion. The way to the attic is blocked by old brooms and rakes. I consider ascending, but the ladder rungs are now thick with spiderwebs.

My mom says, “There are probably raccoons up there.” I’m sure they’ve ransacked my supply of painted fruit, Disney princess teacups, and unidentified caricatures. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to return to my clubhouse. I’ve been excommunicated and frightened away by nature. Maybe I can return to see what remains of my toys — what hasn’t been chewed, rotted, or stolen to decorate a nest.

P.S. I tried to go back and get pictures for this blog, but Grandma closed the shed doors because there’s a family of raccoons living inside. She feeds them daily. Bexley’s wild animals are single-handedly sustained by my grandma’s Chinese leftovers and cat food. My childhood is home to a family of raccoons. My memories are covered in spiders and trash pandas.