The Day We Tore Down The Treehouse

Not so long ago we tore down the treehouse. It had begun life as a short platform, a launching pad from which our son Barrett would propel himself through the air on the tire swing. It would eventually become a lot more than I would ever have imagined.

As Barrett grew older and bolder, repeated trips to the lumber company brought materials for a second level. The added height added booster rockets to the swing, allowing him to grab the gutters on the house on reckless, daredevil arcs through space.

By then, he was also old enough to help with the construction. Hammering and sawing were great "boy things" to do as the modifications slowly took shape.

The tree house served an untended function. It was old Ooza Puddy Too's watchtower, and many a day would find her sunning up top. Like the queen of a vast domain, she ruled the back yard from that perch in complete safety. Not a bad place for a cat.

The day we tore down the tree house, my memory retrieved the little boy who had blasted off from it so many times. But as that little boy grew up ever so imperceptibly, both tree house and swing were inevitably replaced by other pursuits. Over time, the trees themselves became larger, distorting and weakening the structure attached to them. Having become unsafe and unsightly, the tree house would have to go.

Since old Ooza had died, her throne was empty ... or so we thought. But on the day we tore down the tree house, we discovered that her protegee -- Little Backie Too Too, formerly Princess of the Back Yard -- had quietly slipped into the vacated position of Queen. But she was too late; the decision to remove the throne was irrevocable.

The day we tore down the tree house, two roles were undeniably reversed. This time, I watched the young man beside me -- almost 18 then -- do the heavy labor. "The glory of young men is their strength," and mine was in short supply. His was overflowing, and the deed was soon done. Board by board, the tree house was dismantled until this significant landmark of his childhood lay in a heap before us.

Some of the timbers from the tree house were used to repair the fence; we hauled the others to the landfill for an unfitting end. The trees themselves will probably be replaced by a garden, and future occupants of our home will have no idea that there was ever a tree house ... or that such joyous times had been ours.

But for a few minutes on that sunny September morning, the glory days of the tree house lived again -- as did the little boy, the Queen and the swing that had made them glorious. I must confess a wish to linger a bit in those times and to be more attentive to their treasures. If I had only known then what I know now....

Copyright 1998 James McAlister

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