APRIL 6, 2021 – I’d planned to resume writing about The Trial, but yesterday I stumbled into a large pile of scrap lumber. (See yesterday’s blog post.) More precisely, I encountered thousands of dollars’ worth of weathered but still perfectly serviceable cedar in the form of a grand “treehouse” in our small town.
At the site I was greeted by the homeowner, a friendly person with a name straight out of Norway. She led me to the backyard and the cedar . . . castle. A short while later, the family’s white retriever, along with the man of the manor, joined us. You couldn’t hope to meet a more affable and intelligent trio.
After covering lots of common ground—common acquaintances, adult kids, an abiding interest in nature, particularly trees and woods—we got down to the history of the cedar castle. When the couple’s kids were children, the family had sent away for detailed blueprints and material specifications. With the specs in hand, the dreamers bought out half the inventory of a local Home Depot, hauled it home, and conscripted one of the family “Grandpas” as construction foreman.
This family obviously had high standards, manifested in more than the height of the castle. Tom, the dad, told me how he’d rented an industrial-gauge auger to bore post holes down to the frostline and surpassed code requirements checked by the local building inspector. Kris, the mom, told the history of the castle and its backyard kingdom—trees that had come and gone over the past quarter century. From the ground Tom and Kris gave me an elevated tour of the structure, pointing out the sturdy, hidden ladder providing entry; the Dutch door leading into the sleeping quarters; the fully operable windows therein; the place where a giant slide once provided means of quick escape in case of siege; the balcony from which the kingdom’s subjects could be addressed—or opposing armies could be detected as they appeared at the edge of . . . the driveway.
This was more than a “pile of scrap lumber.” This was the product of professionally drafted blueprints, masterfully assembled and remarkably resistant to the ravages of time. It would take a crew a month of Sundays to disassemble the castle and an upsized U-Haul to carry the closely packed pieces away—to the Red Cabin for improvised inclusion in our granddaughter’s “treehouse.”
In addition to their other laudable attributes, Tom and Kris were amazingly accommodating, especially after I assured them that my reputation wasn’t as scruffy as my ready-to-haul-scrap- lumber attire (and pandemic hair) might suggest. “Take as much or as little as you like,” they said. “Borrow our ladder. Come by any time. Change your mind in the middle of disassembly. Take as long as you need.” The lawyer in me kept my mouth shut. The good neighbor in me thanked them profusely and assured them I’d be respectful of the nearby garden beds—the kingdom’s organic food source.
Yesterday evening, the treehouse in my sketchbook grew fancier—to our granddaughter’s enthusiastic approval.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
