Our tree
fort--on the neighbor’s property--was and is a castle: real shingles, a climbable
rope swing, a trap-door, a real cabinet, a pulley connected to the house, and a
zip-line. We used to climb over the railing and down the rope, or vice-versa.
Eric broke his arm on that zip-line; Rachel told him to let go at the end and
he’d fly. (She failed to mention that Dad caught her.)
During the
fall and winter seasons, we would slide down the hill on the pine needles—not always intentionally—and straight into the stunted, bush-like oaks and other
unidentifiable, shrubs. And the occasional poison oak.
Inside of
the cabinet we stored pinecones and other projectiles. By means of the pulley,
we received our nourishment: apples, oranges, muffins. (Thanks, Mom.)
We prepared
for battles, conquered our foes, and celebrated the victories from that tree fort;
indeed, it fostered imagination, conflict, reconciliation, and many, many
memories.
The fort
leans a little funny now. A supporting board is cracked. The zip-line is gone.
The pulley is gone. The bar to which the zip was attached leans precariously
across the trail that is no longer well-trodden. Soon it will no longer
stare forlornly into my window, dancing with the ghosts of the grown children of its youth. We’ll have to say goodbye.
Perhaps I’ll
keep a piece of wood. Or that sign: not a
through street. It’ll be a good reminder.
Experiment.
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