I crave change from the routine but it takes me awhile to resettle. Our long, rainy spring has finally given way to summer and I am relieved; I flourish in the heat. On a good day in between spring storms I had gone out to run errands and arrived home to find a fort in a small tree in our front yard. As I came into the kitchen Bill began explaining, quickly yet calmly, how it came to be.
“You probably noticed the treehouse,” he said, slicing something into the sink.
I slid my bags onto the counter.
“I did actually.”
“They came up with the idea and had a plan and cut the wood by themselves. They just kept asking me for tools. And a rope.” He looked up at me, “I couldn’t say ‘no.'”
“I completely understand.”
So I went to find the middle and his friend, architects and master builders both, to have them give me the tour. This was just the beginning, they explained, and they outlined their plans with earnest eyes and descriptive hands.
“It’s like something out of Winnie-the-Pooh,” said my son as he and his friend admired their work and discussed its improvement at the same time.
It’s very difficult to argue with someone who makes reference to something that I hold as dear as Winnie-the-Pooh, so I nodded my head and hoped I would be as convincing if someone from our neighborhood association, a group that restricts the placement of lacrosse nets and “sold” signs, calls to explain that tree houses are not for front yards. Just in case, I’m ready to offer the crabapple in the back.