BUCKING THE SYSTEM: INTERLUDES OF SOLITUDE AND A ROOM OF ONE'S OWN

Like Winnie the Pooh, I believe everybody needs a private place, a thinking spot if you will, where they can go for solitude. Preferably, the place is located in or near your home, but I know from experience that's not always possible or practical.

Take my childhood, for instance. Our first home gave new meaning to the phrase itty-bitty. It was a starter home, and there was no privacy for anyone. But the second house my parents bought was a larger, ranch-style home that matched the flatness of Mississippi County. In it I found the only spot I could really go without being bothered: A bathroom in the rear of the house.

We had three bathrooms in that house, and the one in the back was the least used. And so, when I wanted to escape the bothersome machinations of my little sister and my parents' demands that I "go outside and get some air," that bathroom is where I escaped.

I'd pull a thick, comfortable blanket out of the linen closet and spread it across the floor, then escape into the world of Tristan and Natosha or whoever was the beleaguered couple in the romance novel I was reading at the time. And additional books, stashed foodstuffs and even a cassette player with headphones ensured I would not have to venture out of my thinking spot until I was ready.

Community bathroom floors are not the place you want to be spreading blankets, and roommates, by definition, do not allow for solitude. And so during my years at Mizzou, the roof of my dormitory became my place.

I would climb three flights of stairs and take the fire escape to the roof, where I would sit and watch the happenings of the university for hours. As long as there was no rain or cold, it was wonderful.

I haven't had a private place for a while, mainly because my children needed constant supervision. But for several months I've been working on a spot where I can go to collect my thoughts, rest weary feet and recapture peace, and I took advantage of it for the first time this week.

While the kids chased each other with tiny cars pretending to be characters from their favorite Disney movies, I sneaked to the door of my place, held my breath as it opened, then gently shut it behind me. I could still hear the kids, but their roars were dim as I settled on my wicker couch and propped my feet on the nearby rocking chair. I turned on the tabletop fountain and took a sip from my wine glass as I settled back on several plump cushions.

Birds were singing their evening songs, and I could hear the faint calls of tugboats as they moved down the river. I smiled as the white curtains my mom made to cover all 10 windows in my place puffed in a breeze, and I smelled what scent remained from the fresh flowers I'd placed on the nearby shelf two weeks earlier.

Only a historical romance novel would have made the evening better, but it was a thought I could not consider. Just as I got comfortable in my spot, I heard the telltale thumping of feet on stairs that signaled my children had realized I was missing. After several appeals for me to say something, they finally thought to check the sunroom.

"Mommy, we couldn't find you. You scared us," Jerry admonished as he disregarded my feet and leaped into the rocking chair. "Can we -- I mean MAY we have something to drink?"

"Yeah, we want drink, Mommy," chimed in PJ as he too leaped -- albeit awkwardly -- into the rocking chair to sit next to his brother.

And so, as in the times when rain ran me out of my Mizzou thinking spot and Clarissa managed to oust me from the bathroom by singing "Did You Feed My Cow" outside the door, I was forced to leave my private place.

But I'm not sad, because now that I've finally found it and experienced it, I know I have a place of my own.

I just need a reverse lock to keep the kids out of it next time.

Tamara Zellars Buck is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.