Castle in the Maple

Slice of Life: Day 8

I was going to flip my desk calendar again as a catalyst for today’s post but changed my mind. Not because I don’t appreciate Margaret Thatcher’s quote, but because inspiration came from somewhere else. When I stepped out of my car after arriving home from work, I checked on the trees I planted on Sunday – unidentified saplings.

I donated to the Arbor Foundation a few months ago – $20, I think – and in appreciation, they sent twelves trees – eastern redbuds, dogwoods, crepe myrtles and something else. They were colored coded, but the paint wore off since I didn’t plant them as soon as I should have. Trying my best to identify the colors, I planted four of them – including the something else. Time will tell.

Looking down on them at their toothpick-thin trunks sticking no more than a foot out of the ground, I thought of today’s post and how trees played a part in my life.

I spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ house when I was younger. And while I wish I could forget the times my brother and I ran through the sprinkler with our underwear, their home provided many other memories I hope I always remember. We had egg hunts on the hill, Thanksgiving and Christmas feasts, farmer’s cheese, jellybeans and sleepovers involving Grandpa telling stories at bedtime. My grandparents had a few cherry trees (sour and sweet). If there were ever a mash-up of Robert Frost and Norman Rockwell, it’d be the time my brother and I took the white bucket and old (cleaned-out) paint can up to the cherry tree. I don’t know how long we spent up there, but we didn’t come down until the buckets were full. Our reward? Homemade cherry pie.

Around this time of year, Grandpa would get the swing out of the garage and tie it to the large maple tree in the backyard. My cousin Gayle and I would play out there all the time. One of us would sit while the other twisted the ropes as many times as possible before letting go sending the one sitting in a whirling, dizzying spin. It’s funny how fast the world moved and how it evoked such innocent laughter. The world still moves fast, but it’s just not as funny anymore.

On our wooded lot, we never ran out of wood. There were always fallen trees or dead ones that were one storm away from falling. Dad’s chainsaw echoing through the forest was as common as the nighttime crickets – or maybe they were cicadas. Either way, when we first moved, they made it very difficult to fall asleep. The towering trees punctured holes in the sky and came down with a crackling boom as shrapnels of bark freckled the ground. We shouted Timber! That was the fun part. After that, it was time to work. The bigger the trees meant more time at the wood-splitter. Which meant more Saturday mornings building a work ethic. The joys of childhood.

Before moving to our wooded lot on Shady Hill, we lived in Kinzers. Before there were noisy crickets (or maybe cicadas), there were cars and trucks outside our front door whizzing by on Route 30. We had a grape arbor in our backyard, a barn, space to play Whiffle ball, and a garden. The greatest joy of my entire childhood was the treehouse.

Dad built it in what seemed like no time at all. I have a faint memory – I wish it were clearer – of my great-grandpa helping. It was the absolute greatest masterpiece ever built. If realtors sold treehouses, there’d had been bloodshed over this castle in the maple. If the window and balcony weren’t enough, the built-in bunk beds would have been featured on Treehouse Weekly. My older brother and I often slept out there, taking the nine-inch B&W TV with us - tethered to an extension cord running across the yard through the kitchen window below. We watched The A-Team, Dukes of Hazzard and Knight Rider. Life was never better.

I always knew before having a family, I wanted to build a treehouse for my kids. Not being gifted in that way, I may have avoided disaster. But it’s my greatest disappointment my girls never had one. Maybe for my grandchildren. In that case, I don’t mind waiting. 

*Photograph by peppershomeandgarden.com