The Den

The den. Or the family room. I have had the good fortune of having grown up in homes with a den. Most of my homes have had dens. In my parents' home it was almost always "the family room." In my mind "the den" was an L.A. term. West side.

By whatever name you choose for that room it's place remains the same: The den is the room where we can play. The den is the room where it doesn't matter. The den is the room where we can talk about it. The den is the room where we can not talk about it just as well. The den is the room where you can scream at the TV. The den is the room where you can spread out your blocks, build your city, and drive your Matchbox cars from wall to wall--  as long as you pick it all up before All in the Family at 8. The den is the room that is always inbounds for family--  and out of bounds for strangers. And if a visitor found himself visiting in the den he could know he was family, was welcome to search the fridge, wouldn't need to ask the way to the bathroom.

The joy, the heartbreak, the laughter, the sorrow; the private face of the family takes its seat on a comfortable chair in the den. I don't know if a lot of houses these days are still built with a den as I haven't lived in new construction in over 30 years. But this old mid-century ranch has a den. A well used den that is filled with all the noisy baggage of this family and the friends who come to call. Come on over, have a seat, just keep and eye out not to step on a stray toy or two.