Curiosity was what spurred me to commit certain illegal acts of my youth, for which I am unrepentant. Sure there might be a different hobby I could’ve taken up, but mine was essentially harmless snooping. Except that time when a friend & I graffitied the top several floors of the Westin hotel stairwells with anarchist & absurdist messages. Only effective if we’d then pulled the fire alarm so the [more monied] guests would actually see it. Consequently, we merely annoyed the underpaid staff. I found vandalism lacking & didn’t do it again.

When my father got hired at Boeing in Wichita, my parents decided to buy a house there. At this time they had only the 3 eldest daughters, the younger set of 3 yet to come. They looked at a few houses but found nothing they liked. One day the realtor said “I’ve got an interesting listing within your price range.” With a twinkle of mirth in his eye he added “It’s unusual, but you should at least see it.” He didn’t provide any more information.

They drove to the property. From where they parked on the street, across from the artfully landscaped yard, the house they saw was lovely. My parents commented on how charming it looked from here, & the realtor said “Every feature of this house was custom-built; but wait until you see the interior.”

My father, at 6’4”, & my mother a foot shorter, neared the house that seemed to shift perspective as they drew closer. Something was a bit amiss. The knob was knee-high, & Poppie had to duck to enter. With a ‘Huh?” on my parents’ faces they noted how the features continued once inside. The windows were lower, the kitchen & bath counters & cabinetry as well. There were gorgeous built-ins, such as bookshelves & decorative nooks. The ceiling was just slightly over my dad’s head. The house wasn’t staged with anything. The former occupants had already moved, taking what must’ve been bespoke furnishings with them.

The realtor nodded at my folks’ wide-eyed looks, said “The owner & builder was a little person. Now you know why this sweet house hasn’t found a buyer.” Still, they marveled at the construction, beautiful woodwork, great layout, rooms spacious in everything but height.

I heard this story repeated a few times in my youth. It lodged itself in my head, a seed awaiting germination. Maybe every child doesn’t wish to see a hobbit-y home, but the thought tantalized.

The instant I entertain the thought that I’m a good-enough human being is the instant I cede potential. I am nothing if not my striving, ever a work-in-progress. Therefore I no longer enter places unwelcome. I have too much daily intrusion upon my privacy by the tech industry. Our homes not only have doors ajar, but our very lives are mined. It’s an economy based on trespassing. This has soured my desire to poke around where I’m not wanted.

One afternoon in my 11th year I got a visit from a friend that still lived in my old neighborhood. Muz gave permission for us to walk to the local marina, some distance away. The diagonal street that cut down to the marina went through a greenbelt with few houses. About a half-block from the marina entrance was an unobtrusive house tucked into the trees. It was painted the same green as the surrounding leaves, as though trying to hide.

I had caught glimpses of this hidden house before when riding by in a car, but this was the first time walking next to it. At this proximity I could see the lower windows, & the door at the side of the house was shortish. Though the curtains were drawn, I was suddenly compelled to have a peek inside. Not only was this house hiding, but the mystery of it deepened.

We tried to peer in the windows. Though the curtains had gaps, we were unable to see much of anything. A path led around the side of the house to the door, just visible from the street but secluded. Though trying to be stealthy, we planned if caught we would feign being lost. Slightly devious, but our intentions were of discovery, not damage.

We took the path to the door. I vaguely recall one of us knocked. Then either her or I (probably me) reached out & turned the knob. It was unlocked, & the door slowly swung open. It revealed a treasure trove of miniature furnishings in a sort of hippie chic. An overstuffed sofa, circa 1930s, velvet-upholstered in a deep burgundy; a cozy chair in green brocade perpendicular to it. Ornate Middle Eastern rugs covered the floors. The kitchen, just off this living room, had a diminutive table & chairs. The counters & cupboards scaled to our size. We saw all this from the door. Then we closed it & slunk away, awed by what we had seen.

Technically, breaking-shy-of-entering is still a crime. It was enough just to see inside. No matter how unique this was, it was someone’s home & I would not enter. Everyone has their own ethical code, & this would be the only time I trespassed a currently lived-in place. Suffice it to say, every time I was in the vicinity of the marina I was on the lookout for the little person who lived in that house. I never did manage to see them though.

This was followed by exploring unoccupied houses just built. & of course the abandoned/condemned structures– my favorites. The downtown office buildings I snuck into turned out to be just as boring as you’d imagine. One time Woodland Park Zoo when it was closed for the night, the only time I was almost caught by security. It was also too dark to see any animals, obviously. I really have no interest in snooping on living people. Empty spaces are the ones you can make up your own stories about. They’re full of way more questions. I prefer questions to answers any day.

 It’s said ‘Life is short.’ I don’t know whose life this refers to, but it clearly isn’t mine. In my experience time does not whisk by even when having fun. Perhaps I do fun wrong. Time slogs until I try to do something quickly. Only then does time accelerate. It would be more accurate to say ‘Time flies when you haven’t got the time.’ Or ‘Life is endless when speed is of the essence.’