He arrived for a week of Beaufort sunshine and hadn’t yet seen the new wall.
While I was outside helping unload the car, he slipped inside, gathered pillows, blankets, and beach towels, and built himself an elaborate fort between two chairs and the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. By the time I found him, the reading room had become headquarters for Fort Beaufort.
I was especially impressed by the engineering. Several hefty books had been recruited from the shelves to anchor the corners and the rolling ottoman served as a moveable wall. My daughter immediately declared the operation over and told him to relocate to a less brand-new part of the house.
I overruled her.
In fact, I was allowed inside the tent myself, though only in the official capacity of butler, responsible for delivering snacks and a flashlight while taking orders from a five-year-old speaking in a proper British accent he picked it up from watching Peppa Pig.
When I asked why he’d chosen to build in this room over the family room or one of the bedrooms, he looked at me as though the answer were obvious.
“I like how cozy it is in here,” he announced.
Ah, how right he is.
Because this area hadn’t even been a room. For years it was just an awkward leftover space off the hallway, the kind modern open floor plans leave behind because every room is expected to do double or triple duty.
Once upon a time, houses had rooms designated for a specific purpose. A dining room for eating, a den for watching television, a kitchen for cooking, and yes, a useless living room to house furniture reserved for company. Then the trend toward open floor plans caused the walls to come down.
Our last few homes had open floor plans, mostly because that’s what was available at the time. I never got used to it. Everything happens everywhere at once, and somehow looking at a sink full of dirty dishes from the sofa is supposed to make us feel more connected.
The trend toward minimalism marched in right behind this wall-less design, and we were encouraged to own less, display less, or as friend described it, go with the “just robbed look.” I still had stacks of favorite books until a decorator announced that keeping too many was bad feng shui. She also believed in shelving books by color, so there is that. Still, not wanting to tempt fate or bring in bad feng shui, I boxed up an embarrassing number of books and hauled them off to the library.
I’ll admit, watching the bags of excess stuff disappear felt surprisingly freeing, but seeing the books go felt like losing friends.
Over the years I’ve realized I miss the company of my books. Not because I’ve stopped reading, but because with no walls left, there was nowhere to put shelves to hold them.
In this latest season of life, I decided I wanted a room of my own, carved from a space that had never really belonged to anything.
And so, the book wall was born. Shelves now hold the field guide that helped me identify my first painted bunting, local histories that remind me why we moved here, signed novels by Lowcountry writers, every Pat Conroy book including a treasured signed copy of Beach Music, small carved birds, and Gullah sweetgrass baskets.
The room feels like a welcome-home party thrown just for me.
Before he abandoned the fort for dinner, he taped a sign across the entrance.
BOYS ONLY. NO BROTHERS. ONE GIRL.
Apparently, I’m the one girl, probably because I’m the one bringing snacks.
I’ve been thinking about that little fortress ever since he left and the last couch cushion returned to its place.
For decades I made room, literally and figuratively, for children, a husband, aging parents, grandchildren, friends, dogs, company, and everyone’s hobbies and interests. I don’t regret any of it. But somewhere along the way, I forgot that making room for other people doesn’t require giving up every room for yourself.
In fact, like his note giving me permission to enter, adding a wall and French doors to my space gives me permission to think and create and to close the door for an hour without apology.
Maybe that’s what this little library has become, or, as he declared, the coziest room in the house.
