Sanctuary

The house is a hectic place. Schoolbooks are scattered across four rooms. Half the time music is blaring from the TV, the other half it's news. The combined clack of computer keys and billiard balls floats down the hall from the game room, and the washing machine whirrs over the rumble of icemaker. At any given time you're as likely to step on a goathead or someone's abandoned shoe as the floor, and either the fridge door or the front door is always left open. In all the daily "little things" of life, every writer needs some peace and privacy.

My sanctuary is the dirty, smelly, messy duck pen. There's something refreshing about the ninety-plus degree weather, buzzing dragonflies, and drippy split tomatoes. Where do you go for refuge when the great indoors gets a little too crazy? The treehouse? The shady patio? The broiling-hot front porch? Everyone has a hiding-place, inside or out, where they can be sure that no one will bother them (prob'ly) until the next meal. Or at least, everyone needs one.