I lived in a pink house once.
The house stood where northern Michigan and Canada leaned so close they kissed.
Across the street sat a laundromat/arcade and a convenience store with a long, glass case filled with Pop Rocks, Nerds, Chiclets, and tiny, edible pieces of heaven.
The pink house promised adventure.
Under the kitchen table and hidden in the red, paisley, laminate flooring, lay a circular handle to a pull-up, cellar door. Behind an old, oval mirror slept a safe. Sure, the safe only contained an old pair of socks and no money, but wow, a secret safe. In my bedroom closet, a small door led to an attic room big enough for my nine-year-old self to feel as if I’d entered Narnia.
I pretended to be Nancy Drew, the old Nancy Drew of course, not the new one with the hip car, and I bravely explored the world within the pink house. I searched for adventure, and I found it. Often.
Although most of us don’t see it, adventure lines our lives. Sometimes even the word adventure makes us want to snuggle in, pull the covers high, and watch an entire season of Downton Abby.
This weekend put down the to-do’s and seek out the all the get-to’s.
Question for you: What types of adventures do you remember taking around your childhood home?
This was written as a part of Five Minute Friday where writers are given a prompt and five minutes to write. Then they are asked to write and forget about it being "just right". This week’s prompt: brave.