by Susan Clark

Created on: April 27, 2008

At the risk of sounding trite, I simply must tell you about my playhouse.

I'm afraid my tale does not involve any heroism, or good-deed-doing, I have not volunteered any significant amount of time, money or blood to improve the lot of those less fortunate than I.......I am proud of the way I decorated the playhouse.

The playhouse was built by my Father in the early 1960's, for my sister and I to play in as children. (My brother had a super cool treehouse, with a trap door, and glass windows.) Even though the playhouse was never actually finished, he certainly pleased us with his effort. We loved the place. It is a cute little wooden building, about 7 by 12 feet. It has a pitched roof, a front and a back door, and five sets of small, sliding glass windows. It had been intended to have two rooms, but herein lies the unfinished part. The interior was all exposed wooden framework, and that included the separating wall.....just a few support boards. As kids, we always nailed an old blanket to them, to serve as a wall. The exterior walls were covered in white tar roofing tiles, which gives it a charming, cottage effect.

When it was new, I vaguely remember there being a realistic set of pink cardboard appliances from Sears/Roebuck. Stove, fridge, the works. It even had a little sink with a hidden well that you could pump water from. After all that cardboard stuff got trashed, I really don't remember much of anything being in the playhouse. Some old tin tea sets, some of Mom's household rejects, some doll furniture, but basically barren and dirty most of the time. But we still loved it, and played in it all the time.

When I was a young Mother, I had to move back home for a couple of years, and I made a weak stab at fixing it up for my daughter to play in. It wasn't terribly inviting, I had little time or money to invest. She never seemed too interested in it anyway.

So it sat, sad and forlorn for a good forty years. Then, the old playhouse took on a new life. A secret, shameful, criminal life. My brother, who had never left the property, announced to everyone that he was moving it into the woods behind the big house, to serve as a storage building. He didn't ask our permission, just did it. My sister and I didn't actually approve, but didn't feel we could rightfully complain, at least it was being used.

A couple of years later, the awful truth came out. My brother had leased our beloved haven to Mexican drug dealers for use as a meth lab. He didn't participate, just raked

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